When the Dead Awaken
By Camilla Sandman

Spoilers: Small references to all past seasons. This story is set some undetermined time after season 4.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: CSI and its characters belong to CBS and are certainly not mine. I’m merely borrowing them for some non-profit fun and misery.

Summary: “The spirits of the dead, who stood / In life before thee, are again / In death around thee, and their will / Shall overshadow thee; be still.” But who awakens the dead? (C/W, G/S)

Feedback is adored. Archiving is fine as long as headers are kept.

Author’s note: Please do note that I use British/Australian spelling. This differs from American spelling in some ways (such as realise - not realize, honour – not honor) so please keep that in mind while reading.

Prologue

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
- Edgar Allan Poe

Better drown your sorrows than teach them how to swim
- Norwegian proverb

******

Sara slept, and slowly, slipping out from the corner of her mind, the dream took over, shrouding away reality.

She dreamt of the dead.

In her dream, they did not know they were dead, did not know their bodies were no more. Sleeping, the dead thought they were only dreaming, a dream they did not know they could never wake from. There was nothing to awake to; there was only the everlasting night that housed the dream.

She dreamt of the murdered.

In her dream, they walked among the other dead as grey shadows, robbed of voice and tears. They were mist in the night, unable to rest and unable to dream. They were dead, but not asleep. Their whispers howled in the wind, demanding justice, demanding vengeance, demanding rest.

She dreamt of the murderers.

In her dream, they were not there, but lurked just beyond view, always behind her in darkness and never in the light. Their whispers always died when she tried to listen. Always, always she sought them, but she did not know what she sought. Shadows in the mirror, whispers in the wind, reflections on the water. Never substantial, never truly there.

She dreamt of herself.

In her dream, she did not sleep. She worked, she sought, she desired, she waited, she listened and always, always the dead came to her. Laments for the dead sang in her blood and she tried to help them, tried to understand what they sought. She imagined their pain and felt it also. She never slept and always dreamt.

She dreamt of herself and awoke, cold and shuddering in the dwindling daylight. The phone was ringing, sound harsh in the otherwise silent room. Even before she answered, she knew who it was.

The dead were calling.

*****

The night was already old.

The sun had long since died beyond the horizon and the darkness had staked its claim on Las Vegas, making the glittering lamps of the city seem almost desperate in their attempt to keep light in the world. The thin crest of the moon seemed reminiscent of a pale smile, but what the man in the moon would find amusing was a mystery.

Grissom had formed his own theory when he was young and used to watch the night sky. Safe and high up on the sky, the man in the moon could observe humans never changing while the world changed around them. Up there, the man was the scientist in his white tower, always observing, always distant. The thought had attracted him then.

He had forgotten it since and he barely looked at the moon this evening, for he had another smile to understand.

The dead smiled, but what had made this woman smile in death he did not know. She had been beautiful once, face framed by dark curls and blue eyes that would have sparkled in life. Now they merely stared lifelessly at the sky. Her hands were read with blood, held up in a gesture of – Pleading? Defence? He wasn’t sure. There were no defensive wounds and the blood was from the shot in her abdomen. Perhaps she had tried to stop the flood of blood. But why then had she raised her hands? It was almost as if she was showing the blood to someone before she died.

But to who and why?

He tilted his head slightly, taking in the whole picture. The dead, smiling and with hands raised, resting in the grass of a Las Vegas garden, one foot on the path, as if she had been on her way to the door, but been shot halfway there and had fallen over.

She was young, too young. Her clothes had been soaked by blood, but seemed expensive. Her shoes were soft leather and had kicked up earth. At her attacker or in the fall?

“The man of the house found her,” Brass said from somewhere behind him. “Says he came out to empty the trash and nearly tripped over her. Didn’t hear anything, or so he says. He claims to have no idea who she is.”

“It took time for her to die,” Grissom replied. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to envision the scene. “She is a few feet from the door. There is no evidence to suggest she has tried to crawl or move.”

“You think she would have tried to?” Sara asked, coming out from the shadows. He smiled in greeting, but she did not smile back. She looked pale against the darkness, almost ethereal.

“If you were dying, would you not try to live?” Grissom replied, meeting her gaze. Sara frowned slightly, but did nod after a moment. A moment later, she bowed her head, shielding her eyes from him and turning her attention to the camera. The flashlight seemed almost intruding in the dark as it swept over the scene.

He wondered for a moment if he truly should have called her to assist on this, but her number had been the one he had dialled without thinking.

Shaking the thought, he turned back to the dead girl and her wide-open eyes, staring up at the moon and the blackness beyond. She had died, but how? By whose hand? And why?

“Why didn’t you try to live?” Grissom whispered and the dead merely smiled back at him.



Chapter One

*****

Wrapped in the grey morning, Las Vegas still slept. The sun was rising, a spectacle of light and fire on the sky as brilliant as always, heralding the awakening of the sleeping. Soon, it would be a new day and the night and its dreams would be another memory.

Catherine dreamt, but the dream held only distant and faint images, unable to truly hold her in its grasp. She slept, feeling warm and bright, almost too bright.

She awoke with a start. The sun was streaming into her room, a bright onslaught on her vision. She closed her eyes again and tried to turn to get away from it, only to bump into something warm and large. In her bed.

It certainly wasn’t Lindsey, for Lindsey was sleeping over at a friend’s. Couldn’t be a dog, for they had none.

“Hmmmpf,” the shape complained in a deep voice.

Memories flooded back to her – the same voice, husky with desire, whispering indecent suggestions into her ear. Indecent suggestions she had followed up. There had been a few she had made herself during the night, too.

Ah.

She opened her eyes to meet Warrick’s amused glance.

“Is this how you treat all the men you seduce shamelessly? Try to kick them out of the bed in the morning?”

“I did not seduce you.”

“The bottles of wine say otherwise.”

“That was to celebrate we broke the case,” she protested. “Besides, you brought one.”

He smiled. “So I did.”

His expression turned serious as he laced his fingers with hers, his dark eyes searching her face. She had a feeling what he was looking for, but she was not sure she could give it to him.

“Cath…”

She pushed a finger against his lips. “No. We’re not going to talk this to death. We’re mature consenting adults, even under the influence of too much good wine.”

He kissed the finger and she was momentarily distracted, feeling the heat from his body mixing with the heat of the sun to warm her. She was comfortable and relaxed and she could not remember the last time she had felt so alive in all ways.

He pushed away her hand and leaned forwards to kiss her. His lips brushed against hers with excruciating gentleness and a faint echo of the passion she remembered from last night.

The phone rang, sounding shrill and angry. She tried to toss her pillow at it without breaking the kiss, but missed.

Groaning, she broke away and managed to track down the sound. The number id told her it was Grissom, which probably meant work. The perfect thing to ruin a good morning.

“Gil,” she greeted, trying not to sound as grumpy as she felt. “Yeah… Yeah... I’ll be there.”

“Work,” Warrick said with slight disdain and she nodded as she hung up.

“Work. Murdered girl, Grissom wants some help with people.”

“Lucky him to have you.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Let’s have some breakfast and help Grissom puzzle out the living.”

That, it occurred to her as she regretfully detangled herself from the sheets, was probably easier said than done.

*****

Night had turned to morning; the sun had arisen to blind the moon and stars once more. The sleeping had awoken to leave dreams behind and live another day.

Sara sometimes wondered if she at all could tell the difference. She felt tired even when sleeping, dreaming even when awake.

And somewhere deep down she wondered if that was why she had been drinking more, almost as if she was willing herself to break down, but she pushed that thought away. It was shameful enough that Grissom had learned she had been pulled over and had looked upon her with pity. She did not desire pity from him. She never had.

What she desired, she could never have. She wasn’t even sure quite what it had been she desired. Love? Life? Just to have kissed him once so she could know if it would have been right or not?

So she had thrown herself into work, trying to ignore the urge to drink, trying to ignore how tired she felt, trying to ignore everything. And the days did pass, somehow. But if it was life, she could not tell.

She looked down on the clothes of the dead girl and tried to push away all feelings, tried to become Grissom. To feel nothing meant not to be hurt.

There was a lot of blood, dark and corrugated in the fabrics. The blouse was silk, the skirt flower-pattered cotton. The parts untouched by blood still felt soft to touch, even through her gloves. The shoes looked more fashionable than comfortable.

The girl had in a way dressed up to die.

“Hey,” Nick said brightly, entering the room with light steps and looking his usual cheerful self. “This the case Grissom got you working on, huh?”

“Haven’t you got your own case, Nicky?”

“Assault,” Nick replied, looking almost bored. “Nothing as interesting as murder.”

“All cases are interesting,” Grissom’s voice came drifting into the room and Nick made a grimace.

“That would be my cue to go work on it, I suppose,” he muttered almost ruefully.

Grissom gave him an overbearing smile as he slipped out, a smile that almost lured a smile to her own lips. But she quickly lowered her gaze when Grissom turned his attention to her.

“We have a name. Reported missing by the parents this morning – Tara MacNichols. Aged nineteen, still living at home. Matches the description of our Jane Doe. I’m heading over to talk to them. Catherine will join me there.”

“I’ll work on the clothes,” she replied coolly. Her mind was void, but somewhere in the void she could almost feel herself screaming. Screaming at him, herself, the dead, the alive, everything.

“Sara, are you… Are you okay?”

There was worry in his voice, but she refused to feel it, refused to let it mean anything. She had let too much mean anything when it should not have.

“Yeah, sure.”

“You don’t…” he hesitated, seemed to search for words, “quite seem okay.”

“And you’d know, would you, Grissom?”

He closed his mouth and looked slightly hurt. She wanted to scream at him for that.

“I better go,” he said after a moment and slipped out. She looked after him and wondered why the pain was not enough to make her stop loving him.



Chapter Two

*****

The violent onslaught of the sun greeted Grissom as he stepped out the house, forcing him to shield his eyes for a moment. He felt a moment of strange rage at the cheerful rays burning down at him. Inside, parents wept for a child the sun would never kiss again. The sun did not care; it shone on always, even when the dead seemed to outnumber the living.

He turned as Catherine exited as well, looking radiant in the bright day, even if sadness marked her features.

“Too young,” she said quietly.

“They always are,” he replied.

Tara MacNichols. Murdered at nineteen. As far as the parents knew, going out with a friend. Instead, she had met death while bleeding in the cold grass of a night time Las Vegas garden. Alone with the stars, her life had dripped away, one blood drop at a time. Yet she had smiled. That bothered him. There must have been pain and desperation. Why would she smile? She had not even had the chance to live her own life yet.

“Brass said he’d get us an address on the friend,” Catherine said as she walked to him and fell into step beside him as they headed to the car, a slight breeze whipping her hair out of shape. “How is Sara doing?”

“What?” he said sharply, almost stumbling and catching himself at the last moment. How was Sara doing? She barely spoke to him since the DUI, unwilling to discuss the problem or to discuss the job or even look at him as used to. He had not even realised how much she did look at him and how often he returned the look.

“On the clothes, Gil,” Catherine replied, giving him a look.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll check when we get back to the lab.”

“You are going to have to talk to her.”

“I will when we get back to the lab.”

“No.” Annoyance flickered across her face. “You have to *talk* to her, Gil. You are her supervisor and she’s struggling. I see it, Warrick sees it, Nick sees it. Do you?”

“Of course,” he snapped back. He bit back just how closely he had seen it and how it had filled him with fear and anger and pity and a fervent desire to somehow fix it.

She shook her head at him, almost fondly. “Sometimes I wonder why you just don’t sleep with her and get it over with.”

“What?” He looked at her, wondering if the sun had somehow melted something in her brain. She met his gaze with the uttermost calm and eyes as bright as the sun, seeming to shine right through him.

“It’s… Trouble,” he said awkwardly.

She smiled faintly. “Sometimes trouble can be good. Trust me.”

He knew that smile. It usually meant she had done something he would not approve of. “What are you doing, Catherine?”

“I’m living, Griss,” she said simply, and patted his hand. “You will get the hang of it.”

*****

She wasn’t sure how long she had worked. She had touched the blood with her gloves, blood that life had left to become stains on valuable clothing. She taken samples, noted size and brand of the clothing, looked for trace evidence and catalogued it all in her neat handwriting. And somewhere behind her, she could almost feel the dead watching, demanding perfection. Always perfection. Anything less would not give them rest. Would not give her rest.

“Hey.”

She didn’t look up. Grissom stood in the doorway, but she didn’t look up, refused to look up. She wondered if he even noticed. She wondered if she even wanted him to notice.

“Is it her?”

“Yeah. The parents confirmed.” He sounded slightly guarded as he spoke, almost as if he expected her to try something, ready to flee if she would ask awkward questions. She wanted to laugh bitterly. Did he think she had no pride? That failure after failure meant nothing to her?

“About that night…” He sounded hesitant, almost shy, something she usually found strangely attractive in him. Even now, somewhere in her mind, she felt something. She just wasn’t sure what.

He cleared his throat and started again. “I know you said it was your problem and I shouldn’t concern myself… Sara, I am concerned. If it was anything I did or Ecklie…”

She almost smiled at Ecklie’s name being mentioned. Conrad Ecklie would drive Grissom to drink, not her.

“I never drank because of you,” she replied, finally looking up.

“Then why?”

“Because I could not feel. Because I felt too much. Because I was alive, because I felt dead. This isn’t science, Grissom. There isn’t just one cause to effect.”

He stood quietly and just looked at her and for once, she felt as if he truly did see her. His eyes were clear and his face held an expression of sincerity and something she had no idea what was. How many times had she stood like this, trying to understand him, trying to… She didn’t know any more.

“You are alive, Sara,” he said slowly. “You come into a room and give it life more than any other I know.”

And as always, his compliments came out of the blue and slammed into her, leaving her baffled and breathless. She merely stared at him, his eyes warm and honest. No lie. Never any lie. Sometimes she almost wished he would. Lies would help her not love him.

There were so many things she could say, but they all seemed vain and silly and echoes of what she had said in the past that he had simply brushed aside.

“I’m tired,” she finally said and realised it was the truth.

He blinked and she lowered her gaze, exhaustion seeming to seep into her bones and weigh her down. She wanted darkness and sleep and quiet and to wake up, to really wake up. To live again, free of the abyss that had become her mind.

She vaguely felt herself stagger and his warm arms catch her, but that might have been a thing of the dream, blanketing her mind as it came.

And somewhere deep in the abyss the dead were screaming at her.

Chapter Three

*****

The sky was a brilliant pool of blue calm with a bright sun in its centre, blazing merrily as Warrick stepped out of the car. It was hot; he could feel the heat lick against his skin and the wind was warm and hardly a wind at all.

He smiled lazily as he walked, no need for the sun to make him feel warm. It was good to be alive in this bright day and Catherine stood waiting for him inside, radiant as a sun on her own.

“Hey,” he said and she smiled at him, welcoming and promissory at once. “Where is Griss?”

She shrugged. “Last I saw him, he was talking to Sara. Unless she has abducted him to have her way with him, I assume they’re around here somewhere.”

He smiled quietly, knowing she saw what he did, the telltale sign of love. Sara looked at Grissom and Grissom looked at Sara and it shone in their eyes, this love and longing. Even in the quick glances they would throw each other, it was there. Buried deeper with Grissom perhaps, but Warrick was used to look at the details and what they told.

He looked into Catherine’s shining eyes and he wondered what he might read from them.

“I don’t think that’s Sara’s style,” he remarked dryly after a moment. “That’s more the sort of thing you would do.”

Catherine looked on the verge of an indecent reply when Brass hurried up to them, face serious and eyes worried, shattering the mood.

“Victoria Klein. The friend Tara MacNichols was supposed to meet last night hasn’t been seen since. The parents have just reported her missing.”

“One dead, one missing,” Catherine muttered. “Am I the only not liking the pattern here?”

Warrick didn’t say anything, but he met her gaze and saw she was thinking the same as he, already fearing the worst.

One more dead beneath the sun.

*****

He watched her sleep, watched her slow breathing and still form in the dark of his office. She looked paler in the dark and her lashes seemed unnaturally dark against her skin. If it was not for her breathing, she would almost look dead.

It was a morbid thought and he tried to shake it, but it would not go and stayed lurking in the shadows of his mind.

How long had she been this pale?

“Gil?”

Catherine’s voice was soft, and Sara did not stir.

“Tara’s friend is missing. Want me to talk to the parents?”

“Please,” he replied quietly. He had almost forgotten the young dead and he felt a moment of guilt. But sometimes, the dead had to wait. The living could not.

“I’ll go along,” Warrick’s deep voice said, but still Grissom didn’t turn, keeping his eyes on Sara’s sleeping form, willing her to breathe and sleep on.

“Get Nick and Greg to look at the trace evidence,” he said after a moment. “There were some fibres on the clothing.”

If Warrick or Catherine found it strange he seemed to include himself out, neither said anything, and a moment later he was alone with Sara again.

He put his head in his hand, fighting a desire to carry her home and sleep with her there until she awoke. As if that would wake her, truly wake her, fade the nightmares and make it all right again.

But this wasn’t about him. Wasn’t that what she had said? But her pains were his pains, even if he was not sure when it had become so. Could he make her understand that? Could he make himself understand it?

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his heartbeats pound in his head.

He had not done right by her. But he did not know how to do right and she could hurt him, a flame that could warm him and burn him the same. So he did nothing. And somewhere along the way, winter seemed to have fallen over her and he had no idea what to do, no idea what to say or how to say it.

So many ways to say ‘I love you’. How did you find the right one? How did you brave the flame?

He was tired, he realised. But he couldn’t sleep, not now. The dead awaited out there somewhere, but he couldn’t move, as if he had been made into stone.

And so he watched her sleep, her chin resting against his desk, the blanket he had put over her rising and falling slowly with her breathing. So beautiful, his Sara. He had no right to her, yet he made the claim. She had not denied him that.

Kissing her dark lips in the bright sunlight. That could have been his life. Had he forfeited it? For science, for safety, for no pain?

“Grissom?”

He met her confused gaze, eyes still cloudy with sleep.

“You feel asleep.”

Her shoulders slumped slightly, almost as if she felt shame. He moved over without thinking, placing his hand on hers. The hostility in her gaze almost made him wince.

“Don’t pity me!”

“I don’t,” he said quietly. “I want to help.”

She looked at him for a long time, searching his face for some answer, but he had no idea what the question was. Whatever she found, it made her face softened and she looked even more beautiful. With a sigh, she leaned her forehead against his and he could feel her breath against his skin.

“It will be all right,” he promised. He wasn’t sure if she heard, but it didn’t matter. He could tell her again, whisper it in her ear over and over until she believed it, believed him. She was strong. He had always known that about her. And whatever darkness she felt lost in, she would walk out.

He had to believe that, for losing her would be a greater pain than any other.

He didn’t move and neither did she, the office dark around them with lamps off and only faint light coming from the hallway outside to cast twisted shadows across the floor.

Outside the sun flamed on and burned the world in the rage of life.



Chapter Four

******

Victoria Klein was dying and she knew it.

There would be no sunset for her, no twilight. She would die under the unrelenting sun and she knew it. She could feel life slip away from her and she had not the strength to reach. Not anymore. Reaching meant pain and she had endured too much already. Numbness was a blessing. Everything was dimmed – pain and light alike. A fading of life. No sudden stop for her, but a slow lingering at the threshold of life and death until she could not tell which was which.

She had cried at first; she could still feel the trail of tears, almost as if her soul had cried and not her body. She did not wish to die and she had pleaded for life, cried for mercy, wept for compassion, prayed for salvation. But coldness and pain had seeped into her and now she merely stayed as she was, staring at the sky and dying.

She did not wish to die, but she was so, so tired and her grip on life was more out of habit than will. Perhaps she could have fought on if she had someone to live for, but between the cold and the pain, she could not remember her life anymore. She could not remember if she had anything or anyone to life for. She could not even remember the feeling of being alive, for surely this was not it. This could not be it.

No one could endure this much pain. There had to be more, something other than cold and pain and the smell of death upon her. Life had to be more.

But she could not remember and darkness called her name.

A moment longer she held on, her hands red with her own blood. One last breath, one last reach – then light and life slipped from her grasp as she exhaled.

And then it was darkness before her, even in the bright day of Nevada.

*****

Day became afternoon and Catherine walked out, feeling the sun burn the tears she had not shed. No parent should have to bury their dead.

In the back of her mind, she could feel Lindsey laugh with life and joy.

Brass slipped by her and gave her an apologetic stare before vanishing into his car. Off to deal with the living. She hoped he wouldn’t find them another dead.

But somewhere out there was young Victoria, waiting to be found.

Warrick stepped out next to her and a moment later she felt his hand on her shoulder, lending warmth and comfort. She wanted to hug him, cling to him, pretend she hadn’t seen two parents accept their children were gone. But her limps felt frozen with cold and she remained still, feeling her own breath slow.

“They know she’s dead,” she said quietly.

“We don’t know that.”

“They know.”

He did not refute that, merely stood by her, not asking, not pushing. A moment too long, a moment too little. With a sigh, she stepped away and headed to the car. The lab would have something on the blood by now. Perhaps answers, perhaps questions. But sooner or later, she would find the killer.

The dead demanded no less.

“What is going on with Sara and Grissom these days?” Warrick said quietly as they approached the car, and she sent him a quick glance. He returned it with a look of innocence.

“They’re trying to communicate with each other,” she finally replied, getting into the car.

“I didn’t know communicating was such a problem,” he remarked, sliding into the other seat.

“It is when you’re speaking two different languages.”

“Are we?” he suddenly said, and she could feel his gaze burn on her face. She kept her eyes ahead, afraid of what she might see in his gaze.

“We’ll see,” she said carefully. A part of her wanted to steam ahead, as she usually did, but this was Warrick. This was… She did not know what this was, but she knew she wanted to figure it out. And then… Then, she would see.

“We could talk later,” he suggested, voice husky. “Over dinner?”

“Lindsey is home tonight.”

“I can make dinner for three as well as two.”

She glanced over at him and saw his smile, earnest and warm and hopefully. And she realised, whatever ‘this’ was, she did want it. Want him.

“Yes,” she said.

*****

He had driven her home. He had not offered; she had not protested. He had not touched her in goodbye, but she still remembered the feel of his breath tickling her skin and the warmth of his hand on hers.

He had offered to help and his eyes had told her this was the truth. And for now, that was enough. A glimmer of light in the darkness that was her relationship to Grissom and perhaps… Perhaps.

She was tired of maybe and perhaps, but this was life, and maybe and perhaps was all it offered in the moment. The future could hold no true promise. She had learned that long ago. Nothing was forever, not even life. She saw that every day. But sometimes she almost wished she could pretend.

Her apartment was quiet, only the hum of air-condition and the refrigerator could be heard. No interruptions for sleep. He had ordered her to sleep, or, as he had threatened to, he would tie her to the bed and sing lullabies until she feel asleep just to escape him.

The image had a certain appeal, she had to admit. If only to see if he’d really do it. Grissom rarely did gestures that indicated caring, so when they came, they were all the more precious.

But was it enough?

She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, feeling the bed and blankets warm her body. But it was her soul that was cold and needed warmth. She just didn’t know how. It was as if her soul had walked too close to death and now did not know life should be warm. Sometimes, she wondered if the dead had overtaken it, waiting for justice for their deaths before going to sleep. She could almost hear them even awake. And always, they waited in her sleep.

She shivered in the heat and without thinking, she reached for the phone and dialled his number. He answered on the third ring.

“Grissom?”

“Yeah?”

“Sing to me.”



Chapter Five

*****

Peace.

Catherine knew the word, knew its meaning, even felt it sometimes. When holding Lindsey, when lying in warmth of a hot bad, when solving a case and putting the dead to rest. She knew peace, peace she created.

But she had forgotten it was also a gift to be given. If Eddie had ever given it to her, she did not remember anymore. The roar of their disagreements and youth had long since drowned out what else might have been. And others since had given her many things and perhaps even a fleeting glimpse of peace, but she had always moved on.

Peace was in gentleness, kindness, deeds done only for the benefit of others, in the simple things. It was a long time since she had sought it. And now...

She looked at Warrick and Lindsey huddled together and her heart felt the first tentative feelings of peace. It might not last. Dating a co-worker would bring all kinds of complications. And neither one had a particular great track record. It might not even be love, just desire.

But he knew her and wanted her, and she knew him and wanted him. They could not hide from each other, not with all they had been through together, all the death they had seen. There was a bond, a friendship they had maintained. And love had been built on worse foundations than that.

She looked at him, remembering the warmth of his skin and the gentleness of his kiss. It might not be enough.

It might be.

And he lifted his eyes to look at her, his smile a promise of tomorrow.

*****

He had thought of her sleeping, her still figure as pale as the sheets, the colour of death upon her. He had thought of her nightmares and their claws on her skin, leaving marks that could be felt, but not seen.

He had thought of her voice on the phone, her soft giggle as he had sung badly and slightly off-key. He had thought of her after he had hung up and looked at the blood of someone who should not have died.

He had thought of the dead and the living and those who could not make up their mind and walked the path of twillight. He had thought of the dead awakening in the living and Sara's soul lost to the abyss they all looked in.

And then Catherine's voice had echoed in his mind, clear and strong.

“Sometimes I wonder why you just don’t sleep with her and get it over with.”

And he had come, invited himself into the cool shade of her apartment where the sun could not burn. She had let him in, her eyes still cloudy with sleep, lashes dark against her pale skin. He had smiled and she had smiled hesitantly back at him, a faint echo of brilliant smiles she had given him in the past.

"Sara," he had said and she had closed her eyes. Suddenly, all had seemed as clear as glass in his mind and he had brushed the caress of death from her skin and kissed her.

Her lips had been cool at first, her hair almost brittle under his fingers. She had leaned into him, her soft sighs mixing with the air conditioner in a lullaby of the day, beackoning them both to bed.

It had not been as he imagined. She was warmer, darker, winter and flame both and sometimes her touch had been so intense it was almost pain. Somewhere, he had lost control and his mind had lost itself in her body, her bright presence.

And now he sat in the dark, watching her sleep. He could not tell what she dreamt, but if she did he hoped it was of fire and not death. He hoped she didn't dream at all, merely slept and rested so that she could come back to him, strong and fair and sorrowless.

Or perhaps he needed to come back to her. Strangely, he had not even considered that he might be lost or where he might have stepped wrong.

Closing his eyes, he touched his body to hers, embracing her and then sleep.

*****

The body of Victoria was found by a humming jogger who at first thought she was sleeping, so still and beautiful was her form. But her hands were coated in blood and her face was like cold marble with tears frozen in her lashes. She slept a sleep beyond life and all the desperate prayers in the world would not awaken her.

Still, the jogger found himself tip-toeing away as he went to call the proper authorities, as if sounds would somehow disturb her peace. Her grave.

And the day went on, loudly and brightly and with Victoria's young murderer walking the streets of Las Vegas. Few noticed her, even as her face shone with pain and her tears streaked her cheeks.

She had forgotten that all humans were the sum of their tears. Too little and the ground was not fertile and nothing might grow. Too much and the best was washed away.

Her tears could not comfort the dead. They could not make right the wrong she had done, could not make the blood wash away. They would heal nothing, undo nothing. Unseen they fell to the ground and was soon burned away by the raging sun. And no trace was left that they had ever been.

Her tears were her story, but no one aside from one had listened to it. Tara had seen her tears. Tara had listened.

Tara was dead.

And she yet lived, but the dead screamed in her mind and their roar was all she could hear anymore.

*****



Chapter Six

*****

Victoria Klein.

Another dead to stalk the dreams of Las Vegas. Another ribbon of yellow to wrap a package of human misery. Another night fading to morning. Another job.

His neck hurt and he straightened himself, wondering how many such nights he had stood like this, trying to find the voice of the dead in the evidece. It frightened him that he could no longer remember. The dead had grown shapeless and grey, losing their face as another case came. Another Tara, another Victoria.

"Warrick?"

Catherine's soft voice drew his attention from the microscope and he gave her a smile she did not return.

"Nick found a bloody knife a few hundred yards from where Victoria's body was found," she said, pushing her palms against the table and leaning forward. Her face seemed grim in the white lighting, pale and with lines drawn. He could read a lifetime in the lines of her face. And now her lines spoke of a strange dejection and sadness both.

"The murder weapon?"

"A murder weapon. The blood is not Victoria's." She bit her lip and looked at him, eyes clear and tired.

"It's Tara's," he said for her.

"Yeah. But the fingerprints - Victoria's."

They both fell silent for a moment, the lab buzzing on around them, ever the hive of activity that never died.

"There were some cotton fibres on Tara's body. We better see if we can match them up with anything Victoria wore."

"Yeah," Catherine replied. She shook her head slightly. "Victim and killer both. I better try to reach Grissom again."

He nodded. As she turned to leave, he allowed himself one touch of her hand.

"You okay?"

"No," she said quietly and left, leaving him with trace evidence and on the clear table, her palmprints slowly fading.

*****

She awoke to warmth and for a moment, she felt as a child in a womb again, sleeping in perfect silence and safety. The illusion faded slowly as her senses started to awaken, adding detail by detail to her surroundings. The hum of distant electrical appliances working. Filtered light through her eyelids. A slight breeze stirring the fine hairs on her exposed arms. The heat of skin against skin. Two breaths mingling.

She shifted slightly and felt the hand resting against her back, almost clutching her t-shirt. For a moment still, she let the unfamilair sensations wash over her, pushing the last wave of sleeping haze from her mind.

Grissom.

She felt her body tense as realisation and memory hit at once. She had slept with him. Or rather, he had slept with her. He had been strangely dominant, as if realising this time it had been his move to make, his advances. His kiss, his embrace, his whispers.

She did not remember what he had said. She only remembered how the words seemed to have merged with his touches in a very Grissomesque seduction. His beard had scraped her skin and it still felt aflame.

Turning in the bed, she faced him, feeling his calm breath against her cheek. His eyes were closed in sleep and she dared a caress across his eyelids.

Why now? Why not a year ago? Two years? Why now, when she was tired and dying so slowly it almost felt like life?

Her phone rang and she slipped out of her bed to answer it, the floor col against her naked feet. Grissom stirred only slightly.

"Sara."

"It's Catherine. Tara's friend Victoria Klein has been found."

"Dead?"

"Yeah. I can't reach Grissom and we could use a hand."

They both paused for a moment, Sara feeling her own heart beat on as if nothing had happened, as if life just went on. "I'll be there."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Hanging up, Sara stood still for a moment, feeling the contrast of the cold floor against her feet and the warm sun on her back. All her life suddenly felt as odd contrasts. Life and death. Despair and love. Fantasy and nightmare. Her and Grissom.

She looked at him for a moment longer, taking in the peace in his face, a naked foot slipping out from beneath the light covers. A part of her wanted to sink down and sleep next to him until all nights came to an end.

But she dressed quietly and slipped out, leaving him embraced by the sun streaming across her bed.

*****

Warrick found her finally in the lockerroom, silently looking at the ceiling. She heard him come, but did not move.

"Fibres match?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. She let out a slow breath.

"I managed to reach Grissom. He wondered where Sara was." She let out something that could have been a laugh if not so tinged with a hard edge. "I told him she was working the crime scene with Nick. He went very quiet in his Grissom way. He's hooking up with Brass to see what else we can match to tie these two cases together. And all I can think of is what would drive such a young girl to murder. She's not that much older than Lindsey."

He slipped down on the bench. "Jealousy. Anger. A simple fight. We've seen people kill for all the reasons in the world."

"Doesn't make it any less incomprehensible," she said slowly and lowered her head. There was a brief silence, even the sounds from elsewhere in the lab feeling muted.

"Kiss me," she suddenly said. He looked up sharply.

"What? Here?" He looked at her as she leaned against her locker, her hair falling into her face and shadowing her eyes and her thoughts from him.

"Yes."

He pushed himself up to face her, hand on either side of her face, looking into her eyes. She met his gaze evenly, her breathing slightly shallow.

"You are a lifeline," she whispered, nothing teasing in her voice as he brushed his lips against her, kissing away her pain. Gently at first, but soon she was tugging at his bottom lip and he was crushing her against the locker. She pushed her hands inside his shirt, probably wrinkling his shirt in the process, but he did not care. This was life.

Life. Breaths and heartbeats and blood racing drowning out even the dead.



Chapter Seven

Sara.

He noticed her as soon as he entered the room, her falling hair shielding her face from view. She was leaning over the table next to Nick, her hands lightly slipping across plastic and wrapped murder weapons. The arch of her back made her top slide up slightly and revealed skin. His fingers could still remember the feel of that skin and for a moment, he merely stood, remembering.

He had awoken to think her a dream, had he not been in her bed where the warmth of her was still on the sheets. She had been there. He had not dreamt her, for all it had felt as a dream.

He remained in the doorway, just taking in the sight of her, trying to sort out his confused feelings. What to say now? There was a thousand things he might say, nine hundred and ninety-nine of them wrong.

And the one which might be right he was not even sure he could say.

I think I love you, but I'm afraid.

"Grissom," Nick said and Sara's back tensed. But when she turned, her face was composed and he could read nothing from it. Her eyes were dark, but betrayed very little. Not for the first time, he wished he could read her mind, know the shadows that lurked in her thoughts so that he may banish them.

"I heard you found a knife," he said, walking into the room at last.

"Yeah. But why is there a knife with Tara's blood on? She was shot," Nick pointed out, shaking his head slightly.

"She was also stabbed," Catherine replied, entering with a file held high, Warrick in tow. "Coroner's report."

"Before or after?" Grissom asked, picking up the plastic wrapped knife. The blood had dulled slightly on it, but the steel glinted as sharply and deadly as ever.

"She was still alive, so just before or just after." Catherine slipped down on a chair, giving Warrick an unreadable look as she did.

"By her shooter - or someone else?" Grissom muttered. His brain flashed him images of the steel plunging into flesh, but he pushed them away. He was good at that.

"The fingerprints were Victoria's," Catherine commented lightly, but her voice betrayed her calm.

"I found some fibres that did not match anything Victoria was wearing," Warrick shot in.

"A third," Sara said thoughtfully. She tapped a finger lightly against the table, her forehead frowned. They all looked troubled in one way or another, Grissom noted. This case was like a million others, yet not. Change was swirling around him and he did not know how to feel abot it all, least of all Sara. Or himself. Evidence was predictable in its course, analyzed, stamped and categorized. Life was not, for all he had tried.

"Let us go back to the first victim," he heard his own voice say, sounding strangely detached. "Why did she die where she did?"

"Frank Jones found her in his yard, but he denied all knowledge of her," Nick said, flipping through a few papers. "There wasn't anything indicating he was lying."

"Maybe he knew Victoria?" Sara suggested.

"I'll hear with Brass," Catherine replied immidiately, whirling her chair around to get up in a heartbeat. She seemed strangely energized, angry and intense all at once. Warrick followed her after a second's hesitation, the two vanishing in a whirlwind of energy and Grissom wasn't sure who was the shadow of the other.

A day ago, he might have wondered why. A day ago was not today. And he could hardly reproach Catherine when he was doing much the same as her. Chasing the shadows of a colleague, chasing the shadows of passion.

"I'll see how our boy Greg is doing," Nick said casually, but almost too casually. He gave Sara a look before exiting, one she returned with the same calm she had approached everything this day. Grissom wondered what her calm was hiding, what storms were swirling in her mind.

The silence was awkward, but words seemed denied him. He did not know which words would heal her, if such words even existed.

"Sara..." he started and halted, wondering quietly why her name was such a caress.

"Don't," she said quietly. She still did not look at him and she seemed even more distant than before.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." he paused again, helplessly. Didn't mean to what? Seduce her? Kiss her? Come to her?

"You're sorry." Her voice was hard, edged, but seemed strangely emotionless. Once, he might have wanted her this calm and void of feeling, now he almost wanted to shake her till the ice fell from her voice. "Why then?"

"I want you to be happy," he blurted out.

"Is that what this is about?" she said calmly, as hard as ice. "Giving me something to live for? Giving me your body as some sort of offering?"

"No," he protested, but she plunged ahead.

"I don't want to live for you, Grissom." She shook her head slightly, and only then did he noticed how hard her hands were pushed together, almost as if pain helped her feel calm.

"What do you want?" he asked quietly and reached for her hands, carefully prying them apart to hold them in his. She froze for a moment, then let him. He could not help but let a thumb gently stroke her skin and she let out a slow breath. Finally, she looked up. Her eyes swirled with shadows and hurt.

"I want you, Grissom. Just you. But you give yourself to no one," she whispered.

"You could... Hurt me," he said haltingly. Every word seemed to struggle against being uttered, but her eyes seemed to lure them out. He owed her this, at least. For all done and said. For all that had not been.

"Life is pain, Gil," she said softly, his first name warm on her lips despite it all.

"It doesn't have to be."

"Yes," she replied, her voice hoarse. "It has to be."

She pulled her hands free and stood up, and he could not stop her. "I cannot do this, whatever this is. I cannot keep taking one step forwards and two back. Not on top of everything else."

"I don't want you to walk away," he said quietly, looking down. To his surprise, he felt her hand on his head, lightly stroking through his hair. But when he looked up a moment later, she had left and only the vague scent of her lingering proved she had even been there.

Chapter Eight

Dead ends.

Catherine supposed she should be used to them, but running headlong into one still knocked her off her feet, still felt painful to fall in. So many dead ends. In life, in work.

In love.

Warrick pulled the Tahoe over into the Crime Lab parking lot, looking as disheartened as herself.

“No link between Frank Jones and Victoria either,” she said, shaking her head.

“He could be lying,” Warrick replied, turning the engine off.

“He could be,” she acknowledged. “But he isn't. Brass isn't gonna find anything. I can feel it. Another dead end.”

“Dead ends is how we end up in the right lane eventually.”

“Don't go Grissom on me,” she said irritably, then shot him a glance. “Sorry. Case is...”

“I know.”

With another person, those words could be trite, but not with Warrick. He did know. He knew her, understood her in ways Grissom could not, for all the time she had known him.

And then there was something other, something she dared not think about yet. Too many dead ends and her heart had learned to guard itself.

She just wasn't sure it could this time. Warrick was too close, too understanding. But perhaps... Perhaps this time she would not need it to.

****

Sara sat in the silence and the dark and listened to her breath. As long as she kept breathing, she was still alive, was she not? Breath was life. Breath was another heartbeat. Breath was life.

Was it not?

“Sara?”

Catherine's voice was hesitant, her shadow falling into the room and merging with the darkess.

“Yeah?”

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

“Grissom?”

“Him too.”

“Ah.” Catherine slipped further into the room and sat down beside her. For a while they just sat in the darkness, life and sounds buzzing on in the distance.

“I don't know how to look forward anymore,” Sara suddenly found herself saying, her voice sounding tired and pale even to her. “I've been standing still so long I don't know where I am anymore.”

“And I rush forwards so fast I lose myself in dead ends and forget some roads go the right way,” Catherine said softly, as much to herself as Sara.

“I guess we both make a mess of things.”

“Nah. Grissom's mating rituals stretch over decades. An inch to you is a mile to him.”

“I don't know if an inch is long enough for me. How do you do it? Griss shares with you,” Sara muttered, feeling frustration burn through her mind.

“I don't hold his heart,” Catherine replied evenly. “If he lets you in, he cannot let you go. The games Grissom and I play... You know.”

Sara nodded. She did know. But she wondered why Catherine had chosen to tell her now, of all times. “Why are you telling me this?”

“The same reason you are.”

“You were here and you listened.”

“Exactly,” Catherine replied and got up. “We had something back from trace. You coming?”

“In a minute.”

Turning in the door, Catherine gave her a smile. “If all else fails, get him drunk and tie him to your bed.”

Sara found herself chuckling, even if it felt slightly bitter. “And that works?”

“Trust me.”

With that, the older woman was gone and, leaving Sara with the shadows dancing in the darkess. And beyond waited the dead, sleeping but awake. And always, she searched for the lullaby to bring them to peace.

Sighing, she got up. It was time to do something. Solve this murder and put one more dead to rest. And perhaps then it was time to move on. Another lab, perhaps. Or perhaps not. But she couldn't continue like this. She wasn't living.

But for a while yesterday, she had almost felt alive, kissing his breath away.

When she entered the trace lab, she found the others all there, Nick looking very energised. He practically beamed at her as she entered.

“Now can you tell us, man?” Warrick asked. “We're all here.”

“I think maybe I have a lead,” Nick replied. “On a hunch, I checked out the neighbours. Frank Jones has no connection to our victim. But his neighbour does. Jack Phelps teaches an arts class Tara attended. And so did Victoria.”

“She got the wrong house,” Catherine said slowly.

“Yes.”

“Who else attended this class?” Grissom asked. Sara dared a look at him, but she could read nothing from his expression. That was part of the problem, she reflected.

“Brass is getting a class list,” Nick replied. “I thought I could talk to Mr. Phelps, see what he has to say.”

“Good,” Grissom said absentmindedly. “Bring Greg.”

“There's another thing,” Nick went on. “The class was apparently held in a building just a few blocks from where we found Victoria.”

“I'll go back to the crime scene, see if we've missed something,” Warrick replied.

“I'll come,” Sara said quickly. Grissom sent her a look, but she ignored it.

“Cool,” Warrick said. “Let's go.”

She could feel Grissom's eyes on her back as she walked out, but she refused to look back. It was time to move forward. Wherever that might be.

But the cold grip on her spine didn't go away.

*****

Grissom came home to find his house bathed in moonlight, silent and calm. As he liked it. But tonight he found himself wishing there was one more there. Perhaps he should have waited for Sara to return. Perhaps he should have insisted she come home to him and bathe in the moonlight with him.

But here he was, alone.

It was finally Catherine who had chased him home, saying he could do nothing more. She was firm and determined and he let her win. He was tired. Perhaps at home he could think, analyse, find a solution to what he should do about Sara.

But the man in the moon hummed lullabies and soon he found himself asleep. And he dreamt; fleeting, confused dreams that seemed to be of importance, but he could not grip onto them. They slipped away like water between his fingers. Nightmares.

The only clear image was of a phone, ringing insistently, until he realised it was not of the dream and reached to answer.

“Griss?” Catherine's voice was tired, but hard and tinged with worry. He felt a cold grip on his spine, dreading what was to come. He knew it would not be good, could feel it in his heart and her voice.

“Catherine.”

“Warrick and Sara didn't return from the crime scene.”

And suddenly the nightmares of dream seemed preferable to those of life.



Chapter Nine

Evening gave way to night, sun gave way to stars and darkness. It was a cold night, the moon devoid of any warmth, but full of light. Silver embraced Las Vegas, giving it a strange feeling of a haunted dream. But beautiful.

They had traced the crime scene while the light was still good. Now they were walking the path from where the art class had been held to the crime scene, more to conceptualized than out of hope of finding something. And because Sara felt no desire to return to the lab and Warrick seemed to have sensed her discomfort and had not protested her suggestion.

He was silent beside her, but she did not mind. It was good to have the company still, even if she wished she could walk in silent, beautiful moonlight with another in comfortable silence.

“There was an art class on that evening,” Warrick said after a moment.

“From murder to art,” she replied. “Did she meet someone on the way?”

“Perhaps her murderer.”

“Certainly her death.”

A star glinted in the sky, a star now probably dead. Dead light for the Earth. But still beautiful and still alive for those who looked upon it and lived in it.

They walked on, comfortable in each other's silence. A cloud passed across the moon, a wind stirred the trees. In the distance, the yellow of crime tape flickered in the wind.

A peaceful place to die, after all. She halted and turned, envisioning the scene as Warrick walked on. Victoria, perhaps a fresh killer, taking the shortcut to class, passing between bushes, away from the road and the houses. A silent park for her death, but she had not known that. She had just walked.

And then... Then what? Death, yes, but why? Her accomplice who had walked with her and decided to dispose of a risk? Or a chance meeting? Revenge?

“I bet you could tell me,” Sara whispered to the stars, but they did not answer. They were dead.

“Sara...” Warrick's voice was strange, sounding slightly hoarse.

She turned around and saw the gun pointed at him, saw the young girl and felt her heart pound as loudly as gunshots in a silent night.

“I want Tara's locket,” the girl whispered. “Give it to me or I shoot him. You found it somewhere, I know you did. Victoria said she had it. I forgot it afterwards. Please... I must have it. You were cleaning up the scene, I saw you.”

“I'm sorry, I don't have it on me,” Sara replied, the last clearly directed at her. She considered reaching for her gun, but the girl seemed so desperate it would probably provoke a shooting.

No more dead.

"Let's just talk," Warrick suggested calmly, holding his hands up, but she could hear a slight unevenness in his voice. “You came back for Tara's locket?”

“You don't understand,” the girl protested. “You don't... I loved Tara. I saw her dead. She showed me her blood. And I told her... I comforted her, I whispered to her.”

“Made her at peace,” Sara said quietly.

“But she was still here,” the girl whispered. Her gun shook slightly as her hand trembled. “Even dead. I could feel her in my mind. Dead awakened. And I had to... Victoria killed her and I had to kill her. Bring justice. Victoria shouldn't have. Not for me.”

“For you?” Warrick asked.

“For me. You don't understand...”

“I do,” Sara said empathically. “I... I'm sorry, what's your name?”

“Lena. I'm Lena,” the girl answered, her voice so very young. She was dressed almost as a child, her pants with sparkling flower prints and her top baby-pink. But her eyes were not of a child, not anymore. You did not kill and remain a child.

“Lena. I do understand. They're dead, but not asleep to you, are they? You hear them still,” Sara said calmly, exchanging a quick glance with Warrick. He let her take charge with his silence.

“Yes.”

“You didn't want to kill.”

Tears fell from Lena's eyes, blue as the ice. “Jack and I... Tara was taking him from me and Victoria knew. But she didn't understand. She shouldn't have killed for me. I would have gotten over Jack. I can't get over Tara. And I found Victoria where I knew she walked and she beamed when she showed me the knife with Tara's blood. She beamed! She was proud, she had protected me. When she showed me the gun, I shot her with it. And now she's alive in my mind, with Tara. Please... How do you make them stop being alive?”

“I wish I knew,” Sara whispered back. “You don't want to kill again, I know you don't. You didn't want to kill at all. Put the gun down. Let us talk.”

Lena shook her head. “No. No. I just want it to end. I thought maybe the locket... If Tara had it, maybe she would rest again. Maybe it would end.”

“It will,” Sara promised, but her words sounded hollow even to her.

“They whisper about more death,” Lena whispered fearfully. She met Sara's glance and for a moment, Sara saw a strange mirror within and she did understand.

And then the gunshots smashed the mirror and left only the dead light of the stars in the dark, dark night.



Epilogue

The first pink on the horizon promised morning, promised life. But not for Lena Fields, sleeping in a body bag.

Sara hoped she had rest now. No more dreams. No more whispers of the dead. The dead should sleep. It was the living who had to face the pain of being awake.

“Here.” Warrick suddenly appeared beside her, a coffee cup in hand. She took it without comment, feeling it warm her hands. Police officers swarmed around, but she did not pay attention. They had asked their questions and she had answered. But none of them understood.

And the only one who might wasn't there.

“Hey,” Warrick said, his voice as soft as a summer breeze, “you did well, Sara.”

He left her, greeting a worried Nick who was practically leaping out of a car, worry all over his face. She watched them talk; Warrick subdued, Nick disbelieving.

Another car pulled up, this time Catherine being the one exiting. Her gaze swept through Nick, pausing on Warrick as an expression of relief flickered across her face and finally settling on Sara.

“Hey,” Catherine said, walking over. “I heard... Did you...?”

“No. She turned the gun on herself.”

Catherine closed her eyes. “So young...”

“She said the dead awaken,” Sara said dully. Her lips felt cold.

“It is we who wake the dead and demand answers from them,” Catherine said and looked at Sara, eyes dark with understanding and sympathy. “That's why I never look back.”

Her gaze moved back to Warrick, standing some paces away and still talking to Nick.

Sara felt no surprise. She merely nodded and watched Catherine walk away. Strangely, she felt no envy for all she wished Grissom would be the one standing waiting – and waiting for her.

*****

Nick slipped away as Catherine approached the two, perhaps sensing their desire to be alone. She was too tired to even consider what that meant. All she could think of was her desire to throw herself at Warrick, kissing him senseless for just being alive.

But she halted a few feet from him, hands in her pockets, just staring at him.

“It's over,” he said softly.

“No. It is solved,” she corrected. “It's not over. The dead remain dead.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “The dead awaken in us, the living and we carry them with us.”

“You sound like Grissom.”

“You sound like Sara,” he countered.

She smiled slightly. “And will you then seduce me over bugs and butterflies?”

“Only if you wear a brown wig.”

She laughed; she could not help it. He smiled through the tired lines on his face and she knew that under the fatigue life awaited.

“And where to now?” he asked, taking out her hand and holding it in his, stroking his thumb across her skin. She would protest such a public display of affection, but found she didn't care.

“Take me home,” she said, feeling the last of her strength sap away.

“Let's go then,” he replied. “We'll pick up pancakes for Lindsey on the way and have breakfast.”

She looked into his face and saw herself mirrored in his eyes, a mirror was softened by love.

I'm going to love you, she thought, and though there's never any happily ever after, there will be an after and that is enough.

They went home.

*****

Grissom could not remember driving, but he must have, for suddenly he found himself at the scene, police still swarming about. And he looked and looked, but she seemed nowhere.

He finally found Sara just after he'd almost given up, thinking she had left the scene, gone home and he was too late. But there she was, at the edge of the park, eyes on the horizon, watching the rising sun.

He walked up next to her, feeling the first rays of sun on his face. They were still cold, but soon the warmth would return to them and it would be day.

“What do you want?” she asked quietly.

“You.”

She froze, but did not look up, and he could feel his future condensed in the air around them, thick and almost strangling. Two paths ahead. One with her, one without. Both were pain, but in different ways.

“Why?” she asked, voice low.

“I don’t want to wake up to see I have never lived, Sara. And without you, my life is less.”

The revelation made her look up, eyes dark and filled with pain. His own hurt flared up and for a moment he almost wished she had not brought him to this point. She could hurt him, even in the scientist tower he had built in the sky. So far away, yet she reached in.

Hurt was life, human life. No pain and you were sleepwalking.

“It is time to wake up,” he told her and held out a hand. For a moment, he thought she might refuse. For a moment, he was the man in the moon, distant and untouchable.

But then she touched him. Hesitantly and with eyes still dark, she took his hand in hers. And there would be hurt and pain, complications he would not know the solution to and effects and causes and he would not be able to merely observe.

It would be life. Dreams would still haunt, but they would be just dreams. You could always come awake.

And he kissed her in the bright sunlight of the morning, the long night over and the moon gone.

It was past time to wake up.

*****

FIN