Title:               Retrograde

Author:            Burked

Rating:            PG-13, implied sexual contact, but nothing graphic.

Spoilers:            Too many to count.  If you haven’t seen all the episodes that GG and SS appear in together, you might not understand certain passages.

Disclaimer:            I own nothing associated with CSI.

Summary:            G/S.  A head injury presents Sara the chance to change her life.

A/N:                I read recently that I’m supposed to write solely because I love it, neither expecting nor even desiring any feedback.  Then why do we post the stories?  Then, if I love my job, I shouldn’t expect to be paid, or get a good performance review.  If I love my children, I guess it’s selfish for me to desire hearing that they love me as well.  The Good Book says, “Give and it shall be given unto you.”  Before you get angry that a writer requests reviews, please take a moment to ask yourself why they should even have to ask.  It can take dozens or hundreds of hours to write a story.  It only takes a few seconds to review it.  Seems so little to ask for, on balance.

“Better by far you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad.”
--Christina Georgina Rossetti

“Who are you?” Sara Sidle asked, friendly but a bit suspicious.

“You don’t remember me at all?”

“No.  Should I?”

“My name is Gil Grissom.  You work for me.”

“I don’t know you,” she said disbelievingly, slowly moving a hand to her bandaged head, and then wincing when she touched the injury to her right temple.

“You’ve had a severe head trauma.  You have a concussion, at the very least.  A common symptom is retrograde amnesia.”

“Will it go away?”

“Probably, except perhaps for a period around the time of the incident.  You may be lucky and only miss a few hours or days of memories.  You could lose a few years.  No one can say,” Grissom told her, repeating what the neurologist had explained to him.

“How long have I been here?” she asked, shifting her stiff body painfully.

“Two days.  If everything continues to progress at this rate, you’ll only be here another three days or so.”

“Good.  I don’t like hospitals,” she said firmly.  “Hey, I know I just woke up, but I’m getting kind of tired,” Sara said sleepily. 

“You rest,” Grissom said with a friendly smile, watching as her lids covered the eyes he had been praying to see – if only once – again for the past two days.

He sat back in the chair, leaning his head tiredly against the wall, slipping into the realm between sleep and wakefulness.

“Where’s Sara?” 

I’m annoyed.  Shift started two minutes ago.  Everyone is there, except her.  This better not be some passive-aggressive female manipulation.  I’m not in the mood for games.

“I thought maybe she was with you.”  Catherine is a little concerned.  Then she cocks her head at me.  Her eyes narrow.  I can tell what she thinks.  She thinks I did something to make Sara mad.

I shrug my innocence.  It figures Catherine would blame me.  She always blames me.  It’s not always my fault.

We wait ... and wait ... and wait.  I look at my watch, then the clock.  I call the receptionist to see if she’s called the main number instead of my cell.  She hasn’t.

I’m really getting angry now.  She’s twenty minutes late.  I try to call her again on her cell phone.  Nick tries her home number.  Catherine dials her beeper.  Nothing but voicemail.  No return call.

“This isn’t like Sara,” Warrick is saying, shaking his head.

“Yeah, man.  Something’s not right here.  I’m going to her apartment.  I’ll call,” Nick says, looking at me for some sort of approval.  I nod and he takes off.

We’re calling her.  She’s not answering.  My anger is turning cold, morphing into fear.  She might screen out my calls and maybe even Catherine’s, if she’s angry.  But she wouldn’t shut out Warrick and Nick.

Maybe she left.  No warning this time.  She’s finally had enough of me and has left town.

Fear ... Anger ... Pain ... Loss.  I’m hurting, twisting in knots inside, but I have to sit here and pretend to be in control.  I can’t let anyone know.

What if ...?  No!  I can’t even think about it.  Accident?  Car wreck?  What if ...? NO!  Don’t think about it!  The fear that she left pales in comparison to this fear.  My stomach is churning and my head hurts so bad I can barely see.  I can’t seem to catch my breath.  What if ...?  NO! NO! NO!  Don’t even think about it!  Sara’s fine.  She’s just mad.  She’s just trying to teach me a lesson. 

My phone is ringing.  I hope it’s her, but I look at it and see Nicky’s number.  I’m so scared.  I answer.

“Grissom ...” Nick starts.  He stops talking.  He’s swallowing.  Oh, God, I’m scared! 

“Nicky?  What is it?  Did you find Sara?”  Please, please.  She’s just mad.  Right?  I’ll apologize.  I tell her whatever she wants to hear.  Just let her be all right.

“Yes.  I found her.  I called 911 right away.  Go to the hospital right now.”

“NO!”  Please, God, NO!  I can’t move my mouth.  I can’t talk.  I can’t think.  I can’t.

Warrick takes the phone from me.  He’s talking to Nick.  He covers his eyes with his hand.  He’s nodding.  Why is he looking at me?  He closes the phone and stands up, walking over to me.

“Come on, Griss,” he says.  “I’ll take you to the hospital.  We’ve got to hurry.”

Hurry?  Why?  She’s going to be all right.  Isn’t she?  She’s got to be.

“What’s happened, Warrick?” Catherine is shouting.

“Sara’s been hurt.”  Three little words.  

Warrick is grabbing my arm, pulling me up, but I can’t seem to make my legs work.

“Come on, man.  You’ve got to pull it together for a few minutes.  We’ve got to leave right now.”

“Am I too late?” comes out of my mouth, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

“No, Gil, you’re not too late.  But we’ve got to go see Sara now,” Catherine is saying.  She’s standing up now, moving to the door.  I can’t move.  She’s looking at me now.  Is she crying?  Don’t cry!

Warrick drops his head.  He looks like he’s going to cry, too.  Don’t cry, damn it!  She’s going to be all right.  If you cry ...

I’ve got to get some control over myself.  We’ve got to get to the hospital.  If she’s still alive, I’ve got to tell her something.  Even if she’s not, I’ve still got to tell her something.  Got to hurry.

Grissom sat up with a start, gasping a breath of air, his lungs working furiously, as if he hadn’t been breathing for quite a while.  He looked over at Sara’s sleeping form, allowing her peaceful slumber to help him push down the bile in his throat. 

It’s not too late.

“So?  How is she?” Nick asked excitedly, seeing Grissom for the first time in two days.  He, Catherine and Warrick were waiting outside the room, hoping he would appear with good news.

“She’s conscious, but taking a nap now,” he said, with a sigh of relief.

“Thank God,” Catherine said.

“Does she remember what happened?” Warrick asked.

“Uh ... as a matter of fact ... um ... she doesn’t remember me at all, so I guess she’s lost somewhere around ten years of memory,” Grissom said, looking helpless.

“So ...” Nick intoned, feeling the loss immediately.  Someone he saw everyday, and depended on as a friend, didn’t know he existed anymore.

“She doesn’t remember anything about being a criminalist, nor any of us.”

Catherine put a sympathetic hand on Grissom’s shoulder, knowing that it must be a shock to his psyche to have the Sara he knows taken away from him, to be replaced with the Sara he had yet to meet all those years ago.  They all felt the hole in their lives, but she knew it would be greatest in his, regardless of the front he displayed.

“She’ll recover.  You know Sara.  Tough as nails,” Catherine assured him.

“I hope so,” he breathed.  Casting a wan smile at his friends, Grissom slid back through the door to Sara’s room.  She was sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of where she was or who she had become.

A place in thy memory, dearest,

Is all that I claim;

To pause and look back when thou hearest

The sound of my name.

--Gerald Griffin

“Oh, hi,” Sara said a little surprised, waking to find Grissom sitting next to her bed, watching her intently.

“Hi,” he returned with a gentle smile.

“Gil ... right?”

“That’s right,” Grissom nodded, his first name sounding strange on her lips.  She had never called him anything but ‘Grissom’.  The others might occasionally call him ‘Gil’ or ‘Griss’, but Sara never did.  Grissom wondered if this was one of those things that was small, but changed everything.

“Don’t get me wrong, Gil, but why are you still here?”

“You’re a friend of mine.  I’m here in case you need anything.”

“I thought you were my boss.”

“I am.  But I’m also your friend.”

“That’s good.  You seem like a nice man,” she said sleepily, a yawn stretching her mouth into a wide chasm.  “Sorry,” she said, smiling.

Grissom was amused by her speech and mannerisms.  They seemed so much more like the Sara he knew years ago.  More open.  Less cynical.  More relaxed.  It was as if the amnesia not only took her memories, but actually took the years from her in age.

“Your doctor says that the swelling in your brain has gone down considerably.  He expects a full recovery.  But you can’t be by yourself all the time, even once you go home.  We can take turns staying with you for a few days.”

“We?”

“Me, and the other people you work with,” Grissom explained.

“I don’t know, Gil.  It’s going to be hard enough to be staying in a home I don’t remember, but to have strangers staying there with me would be just too weird.”

“We’re not strangers, Sara.  We’re your friends.  And we want to help,” Grissom assured her.

“I understand what you’re telling me, but look at it from my perspective.  I don’t know any of you people.  You could be Jack the Ripper for all I know.  I don’t know where I am.  I don’t know how I got here.”

Grissom could see that Sara was beginning to become agitated, which didn’t surprise him in the least.  This was still Sara, after all, and she wouldn’t rest until the mystery was solved.

“It’s okay, Sara.  It’ll all come back to you in time.  But you’ve got to get well first.  Then the doctors say it would be good for you to come back to work, at least part-time.  You may not remember right off how to do the job, but while we’re retraining you, you may start to remember on your own,” Grissom said confidently.

“Where do I work?  What do I do?”

“The Crime Lab for the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. You’re a criminalist on the graveyard shift.”

Sara shook her head vehemently, bringing on a wince of pain.  “I’m a physicist.  I’m studying to specialize in materials analysis.”

“You aren’t in school anymore,” Grissom told her.

“When did I finish?” Sara said, unable to remember her matriculation.

“You didn’t finish, you quit ...” Grissom began, but she cut him off.

“So I’m a quitter?  I don’t think so.  And it’s not like it was all that hard, so I doubt I flunked out.  I was doing well.  I was working on projects for the professors, doing the research for their papers.” 

Grissom noted that she had switched from present tense to past tense.  Some part of her had accepted that what she thought was her present was actually her past.

“No, Sara Sidle isn’t a quitter, by any stretch of the imagination.  As a matter of fact, you can be doggedly determined.”

“So why did I quit?”

“I don’t know for sure.  You never told me.  But you went to work right after that, so I assume it was for the job.”

“What job?”

“You became a criminalist in San Francisco.”

“I’m not even sure what a criminalist is.  I’m a physicist.”

“I know, Sara.  I know,” he said reassuringly, stroking her arm.  She pulled away slightly, eyeing him with distrust.

“I’m sorry.  It’s hard to know what to do when I remember you and you don’t remember me.  It’s ... awkward.”

“How did I go from being a physicist to a criminalist?  Whatever possessed me to do that?” she asked, unwilling at the moment to deal with the awkwardness of the stranger.

“It’s a long story.  I’ll tell you after you get some rest,” Grissom said soothingly.  Almost immediately, Sara’s eyes began to flutter, and she slipped into a healing slumber.

Grissom was stunned by the idea of Sara being anything but a forensic scientist.  He had assumed that she would want to take back up her old life, inasmuch as was possible.  This was the first inkling that history could take a different path altogether as she made her way towards the present.

“I know it’s hard for you to accept right now, but you loved your job.  When you get home, you’ll see all the books and equipment that you have.  It was your life.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a life,” she murmured, trying to visualize her apartment with those types of items scattered about.  She reminded herself that she didn’t live in that apartment anymore, but in some home she can’t even picture in her mind.

“It was the life you chose,” Grissom said.

“Why?  How?” she asked, unable to imagine such a radical change in careers.

“You had worked a little assisting the LAPD on some materials analysis.  That piqued your curiosity about forensics.  You went to a few seminars and got hooked on it.”

“Those must have been much better seminars than the other ones I can remember!” she laughed.

“Evidently,” Grissom shrugged.

“How long have you known me?” she asked.

“Ten years, give or take,” Grissom answered.

“I’ve worked for you that long?”

“No.  You’ve worked for me three years.  We knew each other before that.”

“How did we meet?” she asked.  She felt like a child listening to stories the family would tell about other family members she had never met.

“At a seminar I was teaching.”

“Was it one of the good ones?” she asked teasingly.

“Evidently,” he answered.

“Oh, are you the one who ended a promising career in physics?” she asked playfully.

“No, you did ... to begin a successful career in forensics.  You’re still a scientist, but more of a generalist.”

“Good to know that I didn’t waste 40,000 a year at Harvard then.”

“No, it wasn’t a waste.  You’re an excellent scientist,” Grissom said seriously, despite her light tone.

“Thank you,” Sara said, smiling coyly.  “Now, if I could just remember anything whatsoever about it ...”

“That’ll come.  The doctors say it’s best if you don’t try to force it.  Just let the memory associations happen in their own time.”

“My doctors sure seem to tell you a lot about my case,” she said, a bit taken aback.

“I’m listed as your next-of-kin, so while you were unconscious, they talked to me.”

“Are we related?” she laughed.  “First boss, then friend, now next-of-kin.  Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me that we’re married.”

Grissom coughed involuntarily, then stammered, “No.  Don’t worry.  We’re not married.    ... I have a limited power of attorney for all of my employees who don’t have family around.”

“Too bad.  You’re kinda cute,” she teased him.

“Uh, thanks,” Grissom said, feeling the flush in his face.

“Gil, do I have any family left?” Sara asked hesitantly.

“Yes, Sara.  They still live in California.  I called them right after the accident.”

“Are my parents going to come see me?”

“I honestly don’t know.  I told them you were here and what happened.  They didn’t tell me whether they are coming or not,” he told her.  “Of course, that’s not surprising.  I’m not exactly their favorite person,” he added cryptically.

“What did I do wrong?” she asked, not remembering any serious friction.  “And what did you do wrong?”

“I’m sure they still love you, Sara.  It’s just that you grew apart.  They still have the B and B.  You have a busy job.  I think it’s more of a case of losing touch with each other.”  Grissom chose not to answer her question on why her parents didn’t care for him.

“But you’d think they’d come see me in the hospital,” she said, hurt.

“Maybe they will.  I don’t know.” Grissom was very uncomfortable with this conversation, unsure how much of Sara’s estrangement from her parents he should relate, and what his role was in the turmoil.

“I know you don’t remember us, but the people you work with are your family, too,” he said hopefully.  The doctor said they could come see you for a few minutes this morning.  Is that okay?” Grissom asked.

“I guess so,” Sara said, propping herself up in bed and smoothing down her hair.  “How do I look?” she asked.

“Beautiful,” Grissom answered before thinking.

“Thanks, Gil.  That’s sweet,” Sara returned, with a broad smile.

Grissom hailed the rest of the team from the door.  They scrambled up, anxious to see Sara, though they were nervous.

“This is Warrick Brown.  And Catherine Willows.  And this is Nick Stokes,” Grissom introduced, his awkwardness diminishing.

“Hello,” Sara said uncertainly.  “Pleased to meet you.”

The three were unsure how to respond.  One would normally automatically return ‘Pleased to meet you’ back, but they had known her for years.  Or maybe it was another Sara they knew.

“How ya doin’, kiddo?” Catherine asked, approaching her bed.

“Fine, Catherine.  My head still hurts a little, but the pain medication is helping.  Thank you for asking.”

“You sure had us worried for a while,” Nick said, the concern still painting his face.  “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you, Nick.”

“Hope you get well soon,” Warrick said, starting to reach out for her, then self-consciously pulling his hand back.

“Thanks, Warrick,” she nodded.  A strained silence began to fill the room, as each was unsure what to say to the other. 

Catherine took charge and herded Nick and Warrick from the room.  “Call us if you need anything, Sara.  Anything at all.  We all love you,” Catherine said.

“Thanks, I will,” Sara said, waving goodbye.

“Phew!  That was a weird feeling to have total strangers say they love you,” Sara said, looking over at Grissom.

“They’ve come to visit you every day, even though they weren’t allowed in.  They do care about you,” Grissom explained.

“They seem totally unfamiliar.  I know this is going to sound odd, but even though I don’t know you, I feel more comfortable around you.  Maybe because you were the first person I saw when I woke up.  Is there such a thing as imprinting in humans?” she asked, chuckling.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Grissom allowed.

“You don’t have to stay here any more, Gil,” Sara said, reaching across to touch his arm.  “I appreciate it, but you must have more important things to do.  I’m fine.”

Grissom smiled and shook his head.  “There is nothing I have to do that’s more important.  And you always say you’re fine.  Even when you’re not.”

“Sounds like I live in perpetual denial,” Sara laughed. 

“You’re independent,” Grissom countered.

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” she rejoined.

“I suppose not,” he conceded.  “I better let you get some rest.  I’m going to run home and change clothes.  I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he said, rising from his chair.

“Could you bring something to read?  Nothing too long and involved.  Something like short stories or poetry?”

“Of course.  Do you have a favorite?”

“Not really.  How about something along the lines of Frost or Emerson?  Or maybe Emily Dickenson.”

Grissom had often thought of Sara in poetic terms, but had never thought of Sara as being keen on poetry.  Her choice of writers showed a more contemplative, more romantic side than he was accustomed to seeing.  He began to wonder what had happened to Sara in the time since they met that had stolen the poetry from her life.

The shrill ring of the phone sent a lightening bolt of pain shooting through Sara’s head, as she practically flung herself across the bed to answer it before it could ring again.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby.  It’s Dad.  How are you feeling?”

“Hi, Dad.  My head hurts, but I’m feeling better.  How are you and Mom?”

“We’re fine.  What happened to you?”

“Didn’t Gil tell you?” Sara asked innocently.

“I don’t pay much attention to Dr. Grissom,” her father answered icily, the chill coming through the phone lines to send a ripple of cold through her veins.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to talk about him.  I want to talk about you.  We would have come, but the hospital said that you were unconscious and that there wasn’t any way to tell for how long.  We can come visit you now, if you want.”

“Dad, I want to know why you don’t like Gil.  He’s been really nice.  He’s been at the hospital ever since I got here,” she said, a little defensively.

“He’s trouble.  Just stay away from him.  He’s done nothing but ruin your life.  You were doing just fine until he came along.  Because of him, you quit school and started that god-awful job.  Then one phone call from him and you move away from home, to that hellhole.  He’s done nothing but keep your life in turmoil.  So excuse me for being a little bitter about the high and mighty Dr. Grissom,” her father said, almost in a single breath, as though he had been holding it back for years.

 “Okay, Dad, tell me what you really think,” she teased, trying to get his mood to improve.

“You’re too young to hear what I really think,” he countered, but with less vehemence.

The picture her Dad was painting of Gil didn’t match up at all with what she had seen for the past few days.  But she didn’t really know Gil, and she did know her Dad.  He might be a little volatile, but he had always been honest with her.

She decided that a change in subject was in order.  “Listen, you and Mom don’t have to come.  I know you guys are busy with the B and B.  You can’t just pick up and leave a business like that.”

“Why don’t you come back home, baby?  You could stay with us until you feel better.”

“I might do that, Daddy.  I can’t travel for a few weeks, but after that, I might come home.  I don’t know anybody here, except Gil.”

“What do you mean?” her father asked, confused.

Sara tried to sound unconcerned and even amused, “Well, Dad, it seems that something has knocked around ten years out of my head.  I don’t remember anything since grad school.  I’m a 23-year-old in a 32-year-old body.  And just how unfair is that?” she laughed.

“Sara, I’m serious.  I want you to come home.  I’ll come get you whenever you are ready to travel.”  Her father sounded almost stern, which amused Sara.  She’d had him wrapped around her little finger for as long as she could remember.  He would occasionally try to act parental, but one smile would usually soften him up.

“I’ll let you know, Dad.  I’ve got to go.  The evil witch doctor has just come in to burn incense and chant over me.  I’ll call you later.”

“Bye, baby.  Call me anytime.”

 “Oh, I’ll come back,” Grissom said, turning to duck back out of the room.

“No, Gil!  You can stay,” Sara said, waving him in.  Her neurologist was standing impassively next to her bed, a stern-looking older man with thinning gray hair.  His appearance belied his manner, however, as Grissom listened to him explain Sara’s amnesia to her.

“Ms. Sidle, do you know anything about computers?” he asked, with a kindly voice that reminded her of her grandfather.

“Yes, I work on them all the time ... or at least I used to ... I don’t know if I do anymore,” she said, looking to Gil for confirmation.  He smiled kindly at her and nodded.

“All right, then.  Think of your memories as files on the computer’s hard drive.  Your computer has a table that tells it where they are stored.  It knows the pathway to access the file, right?”

“Yes.  The file allocation table,” she said.

“Right.  Now, if that table is damaged, you can’t access the files the same way.  They’re still there, but the computer doesn’t know where they are.”

“Okay, I think I’m seeing what you’re saying,” Sara said, nodding.

“The damage to your brain has caused a problem with your own ‘file allocation table’, if you will.  The memories are still there, but you are having problems accessing them.  Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes your brain will stumble on one, and form a new neural pathway to the memory.  That often occurs when something is said or done to remind you of the memory.”

“Okay.”

“We don’t know all the processes involved, but it seems apparent that long-term memories are formed either when we attach a strong emotion to an event, or if we access the memory often.  That’s what triggers the brain to turn the short-term memory into a long-term memory.  So sometimes you may get a memory back from experiencing the same emotion.”

“How will I know if it’s a memory, or just a thought in my head?”

“That’s a good question that few people ask, until it starts happening to them.  The memories may not initially come back as nice, clear images.  Sometimes they will be feelings more than the image, or a flash of an image, or a word.  It may not be a full memory instantly.  You may wonder if it’s a fantasy instead of a memory.  Try to change something important in the image.  If it doesn’t seem to matter, it’s probably your imagination.  If it seems all wrong after the change, it’s probably a memory.”

“What if I don’t want the memory?” Sara asked.

“You aren’t the typical patient,” the doctor said, his laughter transforming his otherwise serious visage.

Sara smiled and shot a mock-guilty look at Grissom, who was chuckling.  “Sara is anything but typical,” Grissom agreed.

“Again, there are no hard-and-fast rules.  But memories are set, as I said, by either strong emotion or repetitive access.  If a thought comes to you that you suspect is a memory, but you don’t want to ‘fix’ it in your mind, stop thinking about it.  Don’t access it anymore.  It may fade quickly, like any other short-term memory.  Or, even if you don’t really forget it, it may not have the significance of a memory.  In other words, convince yourself it’s just your imagination.  You may remember dreams or nightmares, but they don’t have the same formative impact on you, long-term, that memories do.  Memories help form who we are, fantasies don’t, at least not to the same degree.  I don’t have any scientific data to back up that theory, but who’s to say it wouldn’t work for you?”

“Okay.  How long until this process starts?”

“Ms. Sidle, I can’t guarantee it will happen at all.  However, your injury didn’t cause permanent brain damage.  In many such cases the return of some or all of the memory begins shortly after the brain heals – usually within a few days or weeks.  There are things you can do to try to help.  Expose yourself, in a relaxed manner, to things you would have memories of, like, for example, your work.  Or friends.  Or relatives.  Trying to force it impedes the progress.  I have to be honest.  Even if all of your memory returns, it could take months or years.  Or it could happen over the course of a few days.”

“So you said all that to say you don’t know,” Sara stated rather than asked.

“Precisely.  I went to school for a very long time to learn how to do that.  And I’ve been practicing it for over twenty years,” the doctor deadpanned.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Sara said pensively, beginning to withdraw into her thoughts.

The doctor shook Grissom’s hand and left the pair to absorb what he had told them.

“Gil, I hope you don’t think this sounds stupid, but this could be an opportunity,” Sara said slowly, as though she were measuring every word.

“An opportunity?” Gil asked, turning the chair to face her bed before sitting.

“How many people get to pick and choose their memories?  How many people get to start over in life – maybe make completely different choices?  So many people are slaves to their past.  What if it’s erased?  It’s actually very liberating,” she said, her voice starting to strengthen with her excitement.  “I can become whoever I want to be, free from whatever baggage I’ve been accumulating for the past several years.”

Grissom looked at her thoughtfully.  He followed her train of thought, seeing that there was a parallel track in his own mind.  She didn’t remember him at all.  It was an opportunity to erase all the pain he had caused her.  He resolved to be the friend and mentor he should have been.  He wouldn’t torment her with his feelings about her and his indecision on how to treat her. 

The two sat in tranquil contemplation for several minutes. 

“Oh, my Dad called while you were gone.”

Grissom nodded, then thought to add, “That’s nice.”

“Coolly formal response.  Much more controlled than my father’s reaction to your name.  So I take it that the issue is one-sided?”

“How are your parents?” Grissom asked, attempting to side-step her question.

“They’re fine.  They want me to come home,” she said, watching for Gil’s reaction.

“That’s to be expected.  They’ve been wanting that for years,” Grissom sighed.

“Well, something obviously kept me here.  Care to share?” Sara asked, smiling at him.

“I’ve already told you.  You loved your job, and you had good friends who cared about you,” Grissom said.

“To hear my Dad tell it, you are a Svengali or a Rasputin.  You’ve captured my mind, forcing me to bend my will to yours,” she said, the thought resounding as ridiculous in her mind.

“I’d like to see the man who could bend your will,” Grissom laughed.

Sara considered the two versions offered by her father and by Gil.  Neither varied dramatically in the facts, only in the interpretation.  Both men seemed to be telling the truth as they knew it.  She decided that reality probably lay somewhere in the middle.  Maybe she was the only one in the world who knew what it was, and she couldn’t remember.

Sara broke her silence, “So, did you find anything to read?”

“Yes.  A collection of Robert Frost,” he said, handing her the book.

“Will you read to me?” she asked, relaxing on her side after pushing the pillow into just the right conformation.

“Of course,” Grissom said agreeably, taking back the book.  He pulled his glasses from his jacket pocket and slid them on.  Opening the book to the first poem, he began:

            Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

            And sorry I could not travel both

            And be one traveler, long I stood

            And looked down one as far as I could

            To where it bent in the undergrowth;

“I love this poem,” Sara said dreamily.

Grissom looked up from the page, studying her face, finally settling on her dark, brown eyes, reciting rather than reading:

            Then took the other, as just as fair,

            And having perhaps the better claim,

            Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

            Though as for that the passing there

            Had worn them really about the same,

            And both that morning equally lay

            In leaves no step had trodden black.

            Oh, I kept the first for another day!

            Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

            I doubted if I should ever come back.

            I shall be telling this with a sigh

            Somewhere ages and ages hence:

            Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –

            I took the one less traveled by,

            And that has made all the difference.

“Hmm,” she purred, listening to Gil intone the poem as if it were springing from his own heart.  “That’s beautiful.”

“Yes, it is,” Grissom agreed softly, his voice just over a whisper.

“It used to bother me to be different ...” she began, but trailed off.

“Me, too,” Grissom agreed.

“Tell me how you’re different,” she entreated him. 

Grissom reflected a moment, unsure how to answer.  “My job ... our job ... is unusual.  My specialty is forensic entomology, which is somewhat rare.  I’m a scientist, but I love literature and music.”

“Granted, that’s not typical.  But they are what you do.  Tell me about you.  How are you different?” she prodded.

“I’m ... um ... very private.  I find expressing personal things very difficult.”

“Is that the answer, or the reason you won’t answer?” she asked, smiling.

Grissom returned the smile.  “Both.”

“We seem to be the sort of people who chose the road less traveled,” Sara mused.

“Yes, it would appear so,” Gil agreed.

“The type of people who don’t allow others to determine our lives,” Sara continued, allowing her eyes to wander over Gil’s face, imprinting new memories of him.

Grissom felt seized by a moment of guilt.  He had indeed spent much of his life marching to a different drummer;  yet, he had made one vital decision based not on what he desired, but on the expectations of others.  He briefly entertained the thought that it didn’t have to be that way – not anymore.  He had a chance to do it all over. 

He allowed himself the giddy pleasure of imagining a far different future for himself and Sara.  But as he considered Sara, he suddenly realized that she was much happier now, without her memories of him.  He chastised himself for selfishly thinking of his own happiness, instead of hers.  He knew, in an instant, who had stolen the poetry from her soul.

“You should rest,” he said weakly, casting a sad smile her direction.

“Is something wrong, Gil?” Sara asked, concerned that she had said something to upset him.

“No, Sara.  Everything’s all right,” he assured her, reaching out to pat her hand.  This time, she didn’t flinch or move away.  ‘Everything that’s wrong is gone from you now, and I won’t let it happen again,’ Gil promised her silently.

 “Are you ready to go home?” Grissom asked her, pushing in the wheelchair delivered by the aide.

“Yes, but I guess I’ll settle for my apartment,” Sara quipped, scanning the room for anything she might have left unpacked.

“You can stay with one of us, if you’d rather.  One strange house is as good as the next,” Grissom offered.

“You’re probably right!  But I guess it’s time to find out a little more about myself.  A person’s home is a reflection of themselves.”

Grissom had never been in Sara’s home, but knew in general about some of her personal belongings, from things she had mentioned.  It suddenly seemed incomprehensible that he should know her almost ten years and work with her three years, yet never have visited her home. 

Though typically he kept his perambulations limited to work and his own home, he had visited Catherine and she him.  He had been to Warrick’s house before, a few times, to give him a ride to work.  Nick’s house had been a crime scene, so he was intimately familiar with it.  But never Sara’s home.  He viewed it as the gossamer web that could too easily ensnare him.

Sara stared out of the window of his car like a tourist, gawking at the gaudy opulence of The Strip.  “You could never have convinced me that I’d ever be living someplace like Las Vegas.  I’m a Northern California girl, raised by Flower Children.  Everything organic.  This has got to be the least organic place on the face of the Earth!”

“It has its attractions,” Grissom said evenly.

“Like what?” she asked, flummoxed.

“We have the best non-Federal lab in the country.  And the crimes are anything but mundane,” he answered.

“So it was the job that made me decide to come here?” she asked.

“I asked you to come, to help us with an internal investigation.  You seemed to like working here, and I needed another CSI.  I offered you the job, and you took it.”

“You seem to have an inordinate effect on my career decisions,” she quipped, raising an eyebrow and allowing a smirk to creep across her lips.  She was beginning to see why her father resented Gil.

“We’ve been friends a long time,” he shrugged, as though that explained it all.  “I was somewhat of a ... mentor.”

“Ah, that explains it,” Sara said, not necessarily accepting it as the whole truth, but accepting it as his truth.  Sara didn’t remember the past several years, but she knew who she was and she knew how she interacted with people.  There’s no way on God’s green earth that she would leave her home and move to this godforsaken place because a mentor invited her, friend or no.

She had been to Vegas a few times, on weekend excursions with friends from home.  She had fun because she was with her friends, but she never liked Las Vegas.  Peering at the bustling streets, filled with tourists, she instantly hated it again. 

“Maybe I should go back home.  Start from where I left off,” Sara mused absently.  “That would make sense, wouldn’t it?  There are people I know and love there.  I’m familiar with the area.  I’d be home.  I could start over in a place that wasn’t so ... so ... strange.”

Grissom had feared this, even expected it.  Why wouldn’t she want to go back to familiar haunts?  To people she knew and trusted?  If he were any kind of friend, wouldn’t he support that?

“You can’t travel right now, Sara.  But maybe once you are well, you can go home ... if you still want to,” Grissom said hoarsely, clearing his throat to try for a stronger voice.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,

How could I seek the empty world again?

--Emily Brontë

Grissom pulled up in the parking lot outside of Sara’s apartment, retrieving her bag and her from the car.  He led her to her door, and asked for her keys, pushing the door open to allow her to enter the unfamiliar apartment.

Sara walked in cautiously, scanning the area instinctively.  She slowly made her way from room to room, looking at all of the belongings of her past, recognizing only a few. 

Grissom followed along behind her, inspecting the home and its contents much as she was.  It was terra incognita to both of them, and they wandered through it as though it were a museum, stopping to look at pictures, books, music and the other evidence of her life.

“A little spartan,” she mumbled, noting that there was no art on the walls, or anything that could truthfully be called decoration.

“You don’t spend all that much time here,” Grissom explained to her.

“I can see why,” she quipped.

“It’s functional,” Grissom said in its defense.

“That’s such a guy thing to say,” she teased.

Sara made her way into the kitchen and opened all the cabinets and the refrigerator.  “I guess I don’t eat much here, either,” she said to Grissom, showing him the sparsely stocked cupboards.

“You like take out,” he reminded her.

“At least some things never change,” she said, smiling.  “I just thought that by the time I was thirty-two, I’d get over my dislike of cooking for one.”

“Make a list of the things you need, and I’ll pick them up at the store,” Grissom offered.

“Can’t I go, too?  You can’t leave me alone in this place.  It’s hideous!” she moaned.

“It’s not too late for you to change your mind.  You can stay with one of us.  We really wouldn’t mind,” Grissom said, sensing that her discomfort ran deeper than she was showing.

“I don’t want to be a bother.  People don’t like other people in their homes, disrupting their routines.”

“You wouldn’t be a bother.  It would actually be more convenient for us than staying with you here.  We’d be in our own homes, familiar with where everything is.”

“Since you put it that way ... Let’s get out of this dungeon.  I’ll go grab a bag of clothes and be right back.  Now, where would you be hiding if you were a suitcase?” Sara said, opening each closet to search for a bigger bag.

Sara reappeared in but a few minutes, lugging her suitcase.  Grissom took it from her hand, and led her out of her apartment. 

“Where would you like to go?” Grissom asked.

“You’re the only one I know,” Sara shrugged.  “Can I stay with you?”

Grissom remembered his promise to be a better friend, and forced himself to quickly answer, “Of course.  I have an extra room.  You’re welcome to stay with me until you feel better.”

Sara sat pensively in the car, deeply disturbed by her first introduction to her recent past.  If a home is a reflection of oneself, what did her apartment tell her about the Sara she had become?  Even if she were rarely there, why hadn’t she made it cheerful and pleasant for the time she was there? 

Once they arrived at Grissom’s townhouse, he showed her the guest room and familiarized her with where everything was in the house.  It was not opulently decorated either, but it obviously reflected the man.  It was uncluttered, clean, organized, and functional.  On the walls were beautiful displays of butterflies and other insects. 

Grissom prepared them a pot of fresh coffee and delivered the steaming cups to the living area.  Sara sat on one end of the couch, and Grissom settled on the other end, handing her the coffee.

“Tell me about myself, Gil,” Sara said solemnly. 

“What about you?” he asked.

“What kind of person am I?  That apartment was barren ... devoid of all personality and life.  Is that the kind of person I’ve become?”

“No, of course not,” Grissom assured her.  “You have boundless energy, sometimes working double shifts for days at a time.  You tend to sleep very little.”

“But what about my personality?”

“You’re somewhat private, too.  But you talk and laugh with your friends at work.  You have a wicked sense of humor.  People either like you a lot or they don’t like you at all.”

“All of that sounds the same as how I know myself, but there’s got to be something else.  Something ... not right.  Do I have any friends outside of work?  Any relationships?”

“You work graveyard shift, so that doesn’t expose you to very many people outside of work.”

“And the relationships?  I noticed nobody but co-workers visited me.  Am I dating anybody?”

“You just got out of a long relationship.  The guy turned out to be a jerk.  You are ... uh ... between relationships right now,” Grissom said uncomfortably, hoping to gloss over the fact that Hank was her one and only real relationship since she got here.

“No wonder I spend so much time at work.  You guys seem to be the only people who care about me,” Sara said a little wistfully.

“Have I ever dated anyone at work?  I mean, is there anyone that I should know about before I go back?  I don’t want to confuse them by being all nice to them if I haven’t spoken to them in a year,” she laughed.

“No.  Though there are a couple of the men who have had a crush on you for years,” Grissom told her, smiling.

“Really?  I take it that I don’t return their affections.”

“No.  They’re not your type.”

“What is my type?” Sara asked, curious.

Grissom blanched, grabbing their cups to refresh their coffee. 

“Tell me about this long-term relationship I had.  What was the guy like?” she called out from the living room.

“He was about your age.  Good-looking kid, I guess,” Grissom answered, feeling a stab of pain with each word.

“Was he a scientist?”

“No, he was a fireman ... a paramedic,” Grissom answered, handing her the coffee.

“Doesn’t seem likely,” Sara mumbled.  “Was he like us?  You know, educated, bright, that sort of thing.”

“No.  Not that I could tell.  But I didn’t know him very well.”

“Okay.  I must have stepped through the Looking Glass.  I find out I live in my least favorite city.  My apartment is abysmal.  You tell me I had a long-term relationship with someone I wouldn’t normally talk five minutes with.  I can’t relate at all to the Sara you knew,” she said, shaking her head.  “It’s just not ... me.”

There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment – but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?

--Lord Byron

Sara awoke suddenly, the images still fresh in her mind, but unconnected.  She willed herself to relax, to allow her mind to fill in the gaps, but it resisted.  She wondered if it was just a dream ... or was it a memory?  She did as the doctor suggested and tried to change the image, the discord striking her immediately. 

Wandering into the kitchen, Sara pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator and made her way to the couch, leaning her back into the corner, her legs splayed across the leather. 

Grissom had been working intently at his desk, checking his emails from work and issuing directives.  He hit a final keystroke and walked over, sitting in an adjacent chair.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked gently.

“Weird dream,” she shrugged.

“About what?” Grissom asked, unsure that he should ask, but feeling like she wanted to talk about it. 

“This is going to sound wild, but did you ever ...  no, it’s too ridiculous to ask,” she stopped suddenly, shaking her head.

“Did I ever ... what?” Grissom asked, feeling the cold root of fear take hold in his gut.

Sara inhaled deeply, smiled her embarrassment, and then blurted out:  “Did you ever ... uh ... tape my wrists together?” She looked at him through an apologetic face, hoping it wouldn’t sound as erotic as the feelings the image evoked in her.

Grissom laughed, releasing his fear with his amusement.  “Well, yes, Sara.  As a matter of fact, I did once tape your hands together.”  I love my work.  “You were showing me your theory about a kidnapping we were working.  The victim was supposedly taped up, but you proved she wasn’t.  As scientists, we often test our theories by seeing if we can duplicate the evidence through re-enactment.”

“Phew!  Good!  All I really got was a flash of you wrapping duct tape around my wrists.  It seemed weird because you were smiling.  And I wasn’t afraid.”  I was aroused.

“That re-enactment helped break the case. The victim was in league with the suspect.”

As he spoke of the case, details of the memory began to form up, like dyes seeping through cloth, the color appearing gradually, but indelibly.  Sara could see the truck’s interior, feel her bound hands.  Excitement raced through her as she demonstrated her theory for Grissom.  Then ...

“You stole my thunder,” she said suddenly, chiding him somewhat.

“Excuse me?” Grissom asked.

“I wanted to carry the ball across the line.”

“It was just a blood sample, Sara.  Standard procedure.  Luckily, you found a use for it.  You did make the touchdown,” he assured her.  He told her now what he should have told her then.

Abruptly the poker of memory stirs the ashes of recollection and uncovers a forgotten ember, still smoldering down there, still hot, still glowing, still red as red.

--William Manchester

Grissom rose to go make them some lunch, then a question hit him, and he turned to ask.  “Are you a vegetarian, Sara?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“You weren’t when you came here, but you became one a couple of years ago.  I didn’t know if you were before.”

“No, but that presents me with a small conundrum.  I obviously became a vegetarian for a reason.  If I eat meat now, will I be angry with myself later?”

“The reason you became a vegetarian,” he began, sitting back down, “was because we observed flies laying their eggs on a pig carcass all night.”

“You really know how to show a girl a good time, don’t you?” she teased.

“We had fun.  I know it doesn’t sound like it, but it was a nice night,” he said, distractedly, obviously lost in his own remembrance.  ... The look in her eye when she wrapped the blanket around me, almost lovingly ... Leaving a hand on my shoulder, the contact exciting, even through the blanket ... Her voice when she thanked me.  She stayed with me all night, drinking coffee, documenting the experiment, talking ... We would take turns getting up to take photographs, but always, always settling back side-by-side.  I knew then.  I didn’t admit it, even to myself, but I knew then.

Seeing his pleasure in it, Sara bid the memory to come to her, but instead a flash of a different image associated with being a vegetarian exploded in her mind’s eye.  There was little to see, other than Grissom staring at her in perplexed confusion.  But the feeling was strong.  Anger.  Anger, hurt, and disappointment.

“How many meals have we shared together?”  He’s keeping me in the dark on the case, and now he wants me to clean up after his experiment?  What am I, an intern?  How dare he treat me like this!

“I don’t know.”  Could you possibly be more condescending?  I didn’t think so. 

“Take a guess.  Over a year working together.”

“Thirty.”

“I’m a vegetarian.  Everyone here knows I’m a vegetarian.  I haven’t eaten meat since we stayed up that night with that dead pig.  It pains me to see ground beef.  Forget about cleaning it up.”

“Okay.  Have Nick do it.”  You don’t get it.  You just don’t get it.  It’s not the meat.  It’s the fact that you didn’t even know.  Or care.  You are disrespecting me professionally by keeping me out of the loop on the case, and now you are disrespecting me as a person. 

“I got mad at you,” she recounted sadly, her eyes moving as though she were studying the picture before her. 

“You’ve been mad at me several times,” Grissom admitted.

“No.  Not like this.  Not like this,” she countered, shaking her head.  Sara huffed out a quick breath and looked up at him.  “I don’t want to remember this.  I don’t want to talk about it.  It’s just my imagination,” she coached herself, shooing the thoughts away like misbehaving children.

“What do you want for lunch?” Grissom asked, attempting to help her distract herself, unsure which of the myriad of occasions he angered her had resurfaced.

“I don’t care.  A peanut butter and jelly sandwich will do me fine,” she said, still trying to shake off the emotion borne by the image.

“I’m not accustomed to serving my guests PB and Js.”

“You have many guests?” she nailed him.

“No.  Not really.  You’re the second one since I bought the townhouse five years ago,” he admitted.

“You’re quite the social butterfly, aren’t you?” she teased.

“I work a lot.  I don’t have time for much else.”

“Does everyone who becomes a criminalist take a vow of chastity?  Or is it just at our lab?”

Grissom chuckled at her.  “It’s hard to get to know people once they find out what we do.  ... And there’s the smell.”

“I can see how I was instantly attracted to this job,” Sara deadpanned.

“You get used to it,” Grissom shrugged, unsure how to rekindle the feeling she once had for her career.

“Are you going to work tonight?” she asked.

“Yes.  I figured you’d be asleep anyway.”

“Can I go with you?”

“Don’t you think that’s rushing things a bit, Sara?  You need to relax and get well.”

“I can relax there.  I don’t have to do anything.  Hell, I don’t remember how to do anything.  I just thought I’d watch.  If I get tired, I’ll rest.”

“That’ll be the day,” Grissom mumbled.

“So, can I go?”

“You’re a hard woman to say ‘no’ to,” Grissom said, wincing at his own words, hoping they wouldn’t trigger the memory he hoped she’d never regain.

“Then don’t,” she advised, taking a bite of her sandwich.

Grissom went directly to the locker room, Sara walking to his side, and a little back, unsure which direction he was going.  Putting his things in his locker, he showed her which was hers.

She opened it and was greeted with the pictures from home taped to the inside.  A smile formed on her face, and she ran a finger across each picture, as though by touch she could take in all that the pictures represented to her. 

Grissom retrieved her ID badge from the locker and hung it around her neck.  The chain rested on top of her long hair, and before she could do it, he ran his hands between her neck and her hair, flipping it over the chain.

“There.  You’re official now.  You need to keep that on at all times.”

“Okay,” Sara said, twisting the badge around to look at it.  “Uh, Gil.  Did you talk me into yet another career change?” she asked, pointing out the Forensic Psychologist title printed under her name.

Grissom laughed and shook his head.  “No, not this time!  HR misunderstood Forensic Physicist.  You thought it was funny and left it like that.”

“Good.  Because I was going to say that if I’m your Forensic Psychologist, you are in a world of hurt.  You could put what I know and understand about people in a thimble and have plenty of room left over.”

“You still have a lot more people skills than I do,” Gil admitted. 

“Oh, I don’t know.  You’ve been pretty nice to me,” Sara countered.

“I’m working on it.  I’m gratified to hear I’m making progress.”

Sara took a moment to explore the room, noting that it had a restroom and showers.

“I usually go to my office before I give out assignments.  The rest of the team gathers in the break room, having their coffee, talking or playing video games until shift starts.”

“Can I stay with you?  Or will you go in there with me?  I don’t really want to be alone with them yet.”

“You can stay with me,” Grissom nodded amicably, leading her down the hall to his office. 

“Mind if I look around?” she asked, her curiosity threatening to overwhelm her limited social skills.

“Not at all,” Grissom said, sitting down at his desk.  Though he took a file from his in-box, he was soon distracted, watching her examine the tells of his life as a scientist.  Most people had to become accustomed to the specimens housed in his office;  few if any were intrigued by them. 

She then studied his awards and appeared to read every line on his degrees and certificates that hung in the back.  Grissom felt as if it were he, and not his office, that was being examined, but he felt strangely excited by it rather than uncomfortable.

He forced himself to return to his work, trying to distract himself from the one constant distraction in his life.

“Hey, Grissom,” Catherine greeted as she walked through the door without knocking.  “We’re all here, so I thought ...   Oh, hi, Sara.”

“Hey.  It’s Catherine, right?”

“Right,” she nodded, with a smile.

“With a ‘K’ or a ‘C’?”

“A ‘C’.”

“Do you have any nicknames we use?” Sara asked.

“Sometimes you call me Cath.  Sometimes Cat.  So does Nick and Warrick.  But just you three use nicknames for me.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No.  You’re like family, so it doesn’t bother me,” Catherine answered.

As Sara turned to continue her exploration, Catherine shot a disapproving look at Gil, silently chiding him for bringing her to work so early in her recovery.  She still had the bandages on her head.

He held up his hands in a ‘Don’t blame me!’ gesture.

“Anyway, as I was saying, we’re all here if you want to get an early start.”

Grissom led the way to the break room, followed closely by Sara.  She looked nervous and unsure as the two young men stood, broad grins cleaving their faces.

“Welcome back, Sara,” Warrick said in a deep, melodious voice.  Sara had not noticed his green eyes in the hospital room, and thought that they were striking next to his cocoa-hued skin.  He was bigger than she remembered, standing several inches taller than anyone else in the room.  Yet he had an easy-going manner that made her feel at ease.

“We missed you, girl,” Nick said.  Sara smiled a greeting to him, thinking to herself that he was darkly handsome, with eyes that were near-black, but carried no malice.

Though she was less uncomfortable on her second meeting with her co-workers, Sara seemed to be drawing her courage from Grissom, and wouldn’t stray far from him. 

Because of the way they were sitting around the table, Sara would not have been able to sit next to him, and as he pulled out a chair for her next to Catherine, he was surprised that Catherine moved over so that there was an empty chair next to Sara.

She began to feel more at ease as the conversation turned from her to the cases they had for the evening.  Tonight, there were four cases:  an assault, a burglary, a murder, and a rape. 

Grissom assigned Catherine to the rape, Warrick to the murder, and Nick to the assault.  “Sara and I will work the burglary.  She’ll be observing for a while.  This shouldn’t take too long, so call me if you need any help.”

All heads nodded, and each shot another welcoming smile to Sara as they gathered up their belongings to begin their night of sleuthing.

“Do I really get to go with you?” Sara asked, once the room was cleared.

“If you want to.  But you can stay here, or go back to my house.  I can drop you off,” he offered.

“No.  I want to watch you work,” she said.

“Rule number one is to stay away from any possible evidence.  I’ll show you where to stand when we get there.”  All the way to the crime scene, Grissom explained what they do and the general procedures for documenting a crime scene.  It seemed odd to him to be giving a veteran the same speech he would give a first-day cadet – doubly odd when the veteran was as accomplished an investigator as Sara Sidle.

For the memory of love is sweet,

though the love itself were in vain. 

And what I have lost of pleasure,

assuage what I find of pain.

--Lyster

“Is it wise to have her staying at your place?” Catherine asked.  Nick was showing Sara around the lab, giving Catherine an opportunity to speak in private to Grissom.

“It’s not what you think,” he said defensively.

“Please.  This is me you’re talking to.  I am well aware that it’s not that.  Unfortunately,” Catherine said, frustration shining through her voice.

“She asked to stay at my house.  She’s not comfortable at her apartment,” Gil said.

“That’s kind of my point, Grissom.  Are you sure you want her to get that comfortable with you?  You know I don’t agree with you about everything that’s gone on between you.  Are you setting her up for more disappointment?  She’s forgotten it all.  You two could move on like it never happened.”

“I’ve thought about that.  But I’m trying to be a better friend than I was before, Catherine.  She’s comfortable with me, and she needs to be around someone she’s familiar with, at least to some degree.  And, frankly, I don’t know what else to do,” he finally admitted.

“Don’t jerk her around again,” Catherine warned.  “Either fish or cut bait.  You have a perfect opportunity to fix all your screw-ups with her.  Don’t waste it.  Either leave her the hell alone and get her out of your house, or ...”

“Nothing’s changed, Catherine.  There can’t be any ‘or’.  And, as you say, she doesn’t remember any of it.  The attraction isn’t there anymore.”

Catherine sat down heavily in the chair by his desk, putting a hand on his forearm.  “I’m really sorry.  This must be very hard for you to deal with.  You two used to be very close.  I know you’ve been having your problems the past several months, but it still must be a shock to have to start back over at the introductions.”

“It is, but it’s the best thing that could have happened, in a way.  She’s so much happier now.  I hope she never remembers anything about our ... uh ... relationship,” Grissom said, for wont of a better word.

“Gil, she lost her memory, not her personality.  Even if she doesn’t ever get back one memory of you, that doesn’t mean she’s not going to make the same choice all over again.  She’s still Sara.  And you’re still Gil.  Whatever chemistry there is that attracted her in the first place is still there.”

“I’m not going to let anything like that happen,” Grissom said confidently. 

Catherine shook her head at his naïveté.  He thinks he can stop it this time.  Like he could stop the sun from rising in the morning.

Sara was Gil’s shadow for the next several days.  At their scenes she was mesmerized by the man he became, as he focused all his thoughts and energies on the crime scene.  He would verbalize what he was doing and why for her, but the words seemed to come from a different man.  They were spoken with a confidence, even a passion, that she hadn’t seen before.

Though he had started her off on non-violent crimes that actually held little interest for either of them, he had a way of making the scene interesting for her.  It was a puzzle, albeit an easy one, at each scene he had taken her to.

Returning from a home invasion, Sara asked excitedly, “When are you going to take me to a murder?”

Grissom frowned slightly, pursing his lips – not in anger, but in thought.  It had been less than a week since she got out of the hospital, though she did seem to be getting stronger every day.  She had obeyed all of his directives at the earlier, less involved, scenes.  He decided that she was ready.

“I’ll take you on the next homicide that comes up.  On average, there are two or three suspected homicides a week in the greater Las Vegas area.”

“Thanks, Gil!” she squealed excitedly.  As fascinating as it was to watch him work a run-of-the-mill crime, she was almost carried away by the anticipation of observing him at a crime with that much significance and emotion.

“You’re welcome,” he said, chuckling at her excitement.  He was beginning to sense that her interest in the job was growing daily, and it gave him at least some measure of peace. 

“Now do you see why we have no social life?” he teased.  “Not everyone gets so excited over the prospect of going to the scene of a murder.”

Sara nodded agreeably.  Even though they worked in a world of darkness, both in hue and in character, she had seen an entire world that existed only at night.  There were dozens of people working at the lab, in various departments ... not to mention the police, the fire department and the medical examiner’s office. 

And outside of their little enclave, Las Vegas itself was just as active in the dark as in the light – maybe more so.  She still couldn’t see why so many of the people she worked with had little or no social life.

Gil handed a pair of latex gloves to Sara, and snapped on his own with one deft motion.  Sara still occasionally struggled with getting her fingers splayed just right to be able to don the gloves without a frustrating battle, but she was getting better.

Laying each bag of evidence out on the large lighted table, he began to quiz her, asking where she would send each for further analysis.  Sara settled in next to him at the table, both bent over, propping themselves on forearms that lay on the thick frosted glass.

Gil picked up a bag, and turned towards her to get her response.  She cocked her head towards him and answered, her face only inches from his.  A feeling began to stir in her – a feeling that seemed to span space and time.  It was the electric sensation of the present, tied inextricably to the past.

While her conscious mind continued to play the student, giving answers to his queries, the less disciplined parts of her mind were working on separate questions.  Brief moments of memory would appear and make themselves known to her waking mind.

Several such scenes came to her mind, each evocative of a closeness that she had only just begun feeling with him.  Yet these memories proved to her that the closeness wasn’t new.  Before, as now, it wasn’t forced or planned.  They seemed to naturally gravitate towards each other, the incidental contact both comforting and unsettling.

“Are you getting tired?” Grissom asked, seeing that she seemed to be mentally wandering.

“I’m sorry.  I was just a little distracted,” she apologized.

“We’re almost done here, and it’s time to go home,” he told her.  They finished filling out the chain-of-custody logs for each piece of equipment, noting where they would be taking them.  As soon as the bags were delivered to their destinations, they clocked out, deciding to stop for breakfast before heading to Grissom’s house.

The drive to the diner was silent, and Grissom was concerned.  He didn’t know whether something was wrong in the present, or whether there was something unpleasant in the past that was wending its way into her consciousness. 

What other words, we may almost ask, are memorable and worthy to be repeated than those which love has inspired?  It is wonderful that they were ever uttered.  They are few and rare indeed, but, like a strain of music, they are incessantly repeated and modulated by the memory.

--Henry David Thoreau

The silence continued through much of breakfast, with Sara providing only the briefest responses to his attempts at light conversation.  He tried talking about work, but she seemed equally disinterested.  He studied her facial expression, but couldn’t fathom what exactly she was feeling.  She didn’t seem angry – just unsettled.

“Sara, what’s wrong?” he asked gently, reaching across the table to lay his hand over hers.

She looked up at him questioningly, needing to understand what she was remembering and what she was feeling, but unable to form the words to ask.  If we were involved, he would have said something about it by now.  Unless it ended badly.  But why would he be so friendly now?  Maybe it’s just me.  Maybe I wanted to be involved, but he didn’t.

“I’m sorry, Gil.  All these disjointed thoughts keep popping into my head.  I don’t know if they are memories or fantasies.  They are coming too fast to sort them out.”

“But that’s good, right?  You’re starting to get your memory back,” he said reassuringly.

“I guess.  It’s a little confusing when they aren’t tied to anything else and don’t seem to have any relation to the present,” she answered heavily.

“I understand that it’s confusing and hard for you, but give yourself time,” he said gently, unconsciously letting his fingers play softly over the tops of hers.

Grissom watched in concern as she appeared to be searching for the beginning of a thread of thought.  Finding it suddenly, she looked up at him, anger flashing in her eyes – but she continued to sit mutely.  She pulled her hand from beneath his, tucking it with the other in her lap for safekeeping.

For the first time, she was experiencing a clear memory, one that seemed whole, though she couldn’t place it in time, nor remember exactly what had come before or after it.

He watched helplessly as a parade of emotions passed across her face:  hurt, anger, shock, confusion.  He wanted to stop it, to tell her to make it stop.  Whatever she was remembering seemed to be upsetting her, and her glare left little doubt that he was at the root of it.

Grissom wrapped his hands around the coffee cup, willing its heat to thaw the chill that was seizing him. 

Sara’s eyes glazed, though they were still trained on him, the memory playing out in her mind like a scene from a movie, but with sensations that she could feel even now.

It was so cold ... My body was shivering ... but, strangely, I didn’t feel it.  My anger made me feel hot.  Damn him!  Why did he make me come with him?  I don’t want to be here.  I don’t want to be anywhere near him.

He’s acting like nothing happened.  Typical.  Ignore it and it will go away.  Well, if he ignores me, I’ll go away ... but he wouldn’t let me.  He wants me around to torture me.

He’s reading aloud.  I’m barely paying attention.  I just want to get out of there, get away from him.  What do I have to do to make him see that? He’s doing this on purpose.  I know he is.  He must get off on tormenting me.

“Boys will be boys,” I said.  He didn’t seem to get what I was saying.  I couldn’t care less about a bunch of Neanderthal hockey players.  I was referring to the utter lack of regard that some men seem to have for others.

He tries to make a joke, but I’m not in the mood for his lame humor.

“You just don’t like sports,” implying that he was somehow less of a man because of it.  Hell, I don’t care anything about sports.  It was just something hateful to say.

“That’s not true ...” his words sounded a little miffed.  Good. “... I’ve always been a baseball fan.”

“Baseball.  That figures.  All those stats,” trying my best to sound colder than the air that surrounded us.  Statistics are sterile.  Coldly rational.  Like him.

“It’s a beautiful game,” he said.  Sounds defensive.  Good.  Let him feel uncomfortable for a change.

“Since when are you interested in beauty?”  I couldn’t sound more bitter if I tried.  That should shut him up.  Jerk.  He doesn’t care about me, or anybody else.  Just himself.

“Since I met you.”  What?  What did he say?  He’s acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world to come out of his mouth!  I can see that he’s still talking, but my mind can’t take in what he’s saying.  He’s looking at me now, just for a second, but his eyes ... his eyes ... are telling me he means it.

“Excuse me,” Sara said, suddenly bolting from the table, almost running out of the door. 

Grissom threw down some money on the table and ran to catch up with her, calling her name to try to get her to slow down, if not stop.

He could see her a few dozen feet ahead of him, pacing in the parking lot, occasionally swiping at her cheeks.  He slowed as he approached her, not wanting her to take off running again.

“Sara, are you all right?  What’s wrong?” he asked, wishing that he could choose which of her memories she regained. 

“Nothing, Grissom,” she said, sniffling and taking deep breaths to force herself to appear calm.  She leaned back against the side of his car, and wrapped her arms around herself.

Gil was immediately struck by her calling him ‘Grissom’.  He had become used to her calling him Gil, and her changing it now was as jarring as the first time she called him ‘Gil’.  It confirmed that the memories she had been recalling that day indeed involved him. 

Gil reached out for her arm, then hesitated.  Taking a deep breath, he gently grasped her upper arm, traversing lightly up and down, soothingly.

“Whatever it was that I did wrong in the memory you had, I’m really sorry.  It wasn’t meant to be hurtful.  I don’t ever mean to hurt you ...” he said sadly, his voice trailing off.

“You didn’t do anything wrong ... at least in the part I remember ... but I guess I was mad ... about something ... from before ... I don’t know what ... I can’t remember,” she said, babbling almost incoherently.

Sara’s head was hanging down, and Grissom had to lean over and cock his head to meet her eyes, giving her an encouraging smile. 

“Well, the odds were that it was something I did,” he said contritely.  “Tell me what’s wrong?  I’m your friend.  I’m here to listen.”

“Grissom ... Gil,” she said, smiling uncomfortably, “were we ever ... uh ... were we ever ... involved?”

Grissom was a little startled by her question, and more than a little confused on what the answer should be.

“Define ‘involved’, for the purposes of this conversation,” he said, uncertainly.

“Did we date?”

“No,” he answered quickly, with more certainty and firmness than he had intended.

“I see,” she nodded, though she didn’t see at all.  His answer didn’t square with the memories she had been having.  But maybe they weren’t memories at all ... just wishful thinking.

The remainder of the morning was spent in separate pursuits, Grissom trying to read in his bedroom, and Sara staring contemplatively out of the window of her room. 

The book lay open on his chest as he tried to deduce from what little facts he had about what she had remembered.  She said that she had been angry with him, but that the memory wasn’t about whatever he had done.  Yet it upset her.  For some reason it caused her to ask if they had been involved.  Out of the plethora of his transgressions, he couldn’t settle on just one as the culprit.

Grissom felt a sad resignation creep into him, as he realized that his reprieve had been short-lived.  She was beginning to remember the man he had been with her, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He closed his eyes and fervently hoped that she would also remember the man he was trying to be.  He could give her little else, but he could at least be her friend ... if she would still let him.

With memory set smarting like a reopened wound, a man’s past is not simply a dead history, an outworn preparation of the present:  it is not a repented error shaken loose from the life:  it is a still quivering part of himself, bringing shudders and bitter flavours and the tinglings of a merited shame.

--George Eliot

Sara couldn’t resolve the conflicting images of her past and her present.  She felt like she was seeing her life half straight ahead and half through a mirror, where all the images were somehow reversed.

She had been living with Gil for a week, and he had been with her in the hospital almost a week more than that, if one counted the couple of days she was in and out of consciousness.

She had felt nothing but an easy peace around him, yet her memories were anything but peaceful.  In them, there was tension, teetering between lust and hatred at any given moment.

The memories she had at the lab, of close proximity, even touching each other, taken with the ease with which he touched her now, made her think that they had been closer than he was letting on.

Strangely, even the bad memories where she was angry with him also convinced her that there was more to the relationship.  You just don’t get that hurt and angry with someone you don’t have a relationship with.  Intensity begets intensity.

Grissom was relieved that she came out to have dinner with him.  She had been cloistered in her room all day.  He was further buoyed when she initiated small talk with him, seemingly trying to move past whatever trauma she had been dealing with.

On the ride into work, Grissom suggested, as delicately as he could given his social skills, that she see the departmental psychologist.

“Maybe he can help you.  I can see that it’s almost as traumatic to get your memories back as it was to lose them in the first place,” he said gently.

“More.  You get them back in bits and pieces, not relating to anything.  I don’t know what any of them mean,” she said distantly, looking out the window on her side.

At the lab, they spent a few hours shepherding evidence through the process, before going into a layout room to examine some of the samples themselves.  Several parallel swathes of white butcher paper were taped together on the wall, the apparent destination of a blood spatter experiment from another shift.

Sara turned to look at it, still not having been exposed to blood spatter as yet, her curiosity piqued.  Grissom walked over to stand next to her, and they both studied the patterns displayed, brownish-red on white.

“Tell me what they are looking for,” Sara asked, her eyes scanning the dots and splashes.

Grissom pointed to various sections, explaining to her the different types of spatter, and what they indicated.  He showed her the tiny dots that indicated a high-velocity trauma, like a gunshot or a wound from an incredibly fast, powerful force, like machinery.

He pointed out the void areas that indicated that something was between the source of the blood and the paper.

Continuing with his lecture, he circled an area with his finger, telling her that it indicated a medium-velocity impact, like being struck with a fist or some object wielded by human hands.

He continued to talk, but Sara wasn’t listening anymore.  She focused on the medium-velocity spatter, the image alternating between the pattern before her and another one in her mind, back and forth, a strobe-light kind of effect that left her disoriented.

Grissom turned to her and could see that she was remembering something, so he moved back to her side and stood quietly, waiting for her to return to the present.

“No, no, this pattern here.” Grissom is talking.  We are looking at a sheet with several bloody patterns distributed over it.

...

Just answer his questions professionally and he’ll go away.  I didn’t do anything wrong.  My evidence is good.

...

“I wish she had mentioned her relationship ...” Oh my God!  Oh my God!  How does he know anything about that? Don’t talk about that here!  Not while he’s here. It’s nothing.  It’s no big deal.  Oh my God, I can’t look at him.  I can feel him staring a hole through me. 

Good.  They’re leaving.  Wait.  He’s stopping.  Turning around.  Oh, God!  Look at his face!  He looks so ... so ... hurt.  ‘It’s nothing!’ I want to shout.  ‘I’m not interested in him’.  But he thinks I’ve betrayed him.  Now he’ll never trust me again.

“I’m so sorry ... I’m so very sorry,” Sara began to mumble, still in her netherworld.

“Sara, what is it?” Grissom asked gently.

She merged back into the present and looked at him, surprised she didn’t see the pain in his eyes.  “I’m sorry,” she breathed out again, touching his chest lightly, but not able to look at him.  Again, she wanted to escape, to leave the scene of the crime.

Grissom caught her by the arm as she tried to flee.  “Sara!  Tell me what’s wrong!”

She pushed at him as she pulled her arm away.  “Just let me go, Gil. ... I’m sorry I did that to you,” she said, running from the room.

Grissom was perplexed, feeling the need to catch her and tell her that everything would be all right, but knowing that it probably would be a lie.

He turned to the exhibit they had been looking at, and replayed in his mind the few words that she had given him as clues.  He could think of so few things that she had ever done to him that would bring on an apology ... and only one that was associated with looking at blood spatter.

I had done so well up until then ... or so I thought.  I had managed to have my cake and eat it too.  We had played at a relationship ... but it was all in our minds ... a virtual affair, but torrid in its own way.   

When I heard, not from her own lips but through another’s, that she was seeing someone else, all the oxygen left the room.  I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t think.

Look at me!  Tell me he’s lying! ... She can’t even look at me.  She’s stammering through her weak denial.  ... He’s telling the truth.

I’ve got to get out of this room.  I’ve got to get away from her.  Stay away from her.

I can’t help but turn to look at her, I want to ask her why she didn’t tell me ... why didn’t she wait for me?  She mumbles something about the case.  She won’t really look me in the eye.  I can’t breathe.  I can’t swallow. 

I’ve got to get out of here before I say something I shouldn’t ... I want to yell at her ... I want to beg her to quit seeing him.

Why should she listen to anything I say?  If I really cared, I’d let her go.  She deserves a life ... a life she’ll never find with me.

Grissom closed his eyes as the images, words and feelings flooded over him like a burst dam, almost knocking him down.  He could feel his chest tighten and his throat constrict, almost as strongly as before.  Grissom was seized with the overwhelming urge to leave the room, until he opened his eyes to the present.

Today, she had said she was sorry.  She had never apologized for it before.  They had never discussed it again after it happened.  They had each seemingly accepted that everything had changed, inalterably, in the split second it takes for a few words to issue from a demon’s mouth.

Remorse—is Memory—awake—

Her Parties all astir—

--Emily Dickenson

The only place Sara could find that seemed safe was the ladies restroom.  He wouldn’t follow her in here.  Closing herself in a stall, in case someone else came in, she wiped the tears from her face with toilet tissue.

So it did end badly.  By my betraying him.  Funny, I never would have thought I’d turn into the kind of person who would do that.

But he said we weren’t dating.   Even if we weren’t dating, we obviously had something going on ... something I ruined. 

Sara remembered that one of the many posters on the wall talked about the Employee Assistance Program.  She didn’t pay much attention to it at the time, but she was fairly sure that there was a twenty-four-hour hotline number.

She came out of the stall and scanned the various posters, looking for the one that might help her.  She dialed the number, hoping no one would come in while she was calling.

“EAP Hotline.  This is Deb.  How can I help you?” a friendly voice spoke.

“Uh ... Hi, Deb.  My name is Sara.  I need to talk to a counselor.  Right away.  I’m sorry, I know it’s the middle of the night, but I work the night shift for the Crime Lab.”

“That’s not a problem, Sara.  Give me a number where you can be reached.  Someone will call you back in just a few minutes.”

“Oh, okay,” Sara said, rattling off her cell phone number to Deb.

Sara didn’t like the feeling of being trapped in the ladies room while she was talking to a shrink.  She was uncomfortable enough with the idea that she obviously needed some outside help.

Looking to ensure that the hall was clear, she slid out of the bathroom, skulking towards an exit to the rear of the building.  She breathed a sigh of relief as she hit the open air, then found an area to hide in the shadows, where no one would see her.

Within minutes her phone rang, and she flipped it open, almost with desperation.

“Sidle.”

“I thought it was you,” a voice said, still a little thick, as though he had just awakened.

“Hi, Dr. Kane.”

“Memories starting to come back?” he asked, without preamble.

“Yeah.  Sort of.  My memory feels like swiss cheese.  Holes everywhere.  I thought things would get better when I started remembering things, but they’re getting worse.  I’m more confused than ever.”

“You want to meet?  Talk about it?”

“I don’t want to drag you out in the middle of the night.”

“Sara, I don’t mind.  Do you mind when you have to go in during the day sometimes?”

“No.”

“Same here.  You want to meet somewhere?”

“I rode in with Grissom.”

“I’ll pick you up.  You at the lab?”

“Yeah.  Back parking lot.”

“Hiding?” Philip teased.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” she laughed.

“I’ll pull up in back.  Silver Acura.”

“Thanks, Dr. Kane,” Sara said, hanging up the phone.

Sara felt like she was entering a safe haven as she eased into Dr. Kane’s car. 

“Where to?” he asked, smiling.

“We can just drive around, if you want.  Or go anywhere.  I don’t care,” she said, distractedly.

“So, what’s been happening?” Dr. Kane asked.

“I keep getting flashes of memory.  But I can’t pull them together, and they don’t match anything I’m experiencing now.”

“They may never pull together, Sara,” Dr. Kane warned.  “Or the whole thing could fill in tomorrow, all at once.  The brain is a mysterious thing ... and the mind more so.”

“I don’t know how to feel about the memories.  Some of them are ... disturbing.  They don’t fit with the reality I’m living.”

“Then discount them.”

“How can I?  They’re there.  And if they are true, it would impact how I see things today.  That’s the problem, really.  I’m seeing things one way, then poof! this memory appears that puts a whole different spin on it.  I don’t know what to believe.”

“Sara, you can’t change what has happened.  And you can’t really change what you remember.  But you can affect how you think about them, how you feel about them.  If they don’t seem to relate to the present, assume that you’ve worked them out, whatever they are.”

“So, basically, you’re saying I should just ignore them?”  Sara wasn’t sure she could, especially where they concerned Gil.

“Not so much ignore them.  Okay, let’s say you remember something uncomfortable, maybe painful.  Do you choose to dwell on that?  Make the pain part of your present?  Or do you tell yourself that that was then, and this is now.  You don’t have to accept the pain, especially if it’s not happening now.”

“What if I remember a person one way, but now they seem totally different?”

“Maybe they are totally different now.  Give them the benefit of the doubt.  Give yourself the benefit of the doubt.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Dr. Kane.  After I got used to the idea of the amnesia, it didn’t seem so bad.  I had a chance to start all over.  I know it hasn’t been very long, but I felt like I was building a life for myself again here.  Now all these memories are coming back, and I don’t like who I was.”

“Then don’t change back into that person,” he said, facilely.

“You say that so easily,” Sara snorted.

“Well, it’s easy for me to say.  But, seriously, you can change how you feel about your memories.  I’ll give you an example.  A man and woman have a loveless marriage, and fight for fifty years.  He dies, and then to hear her tell it, he was a saint.  It happens all the time.” 

Sara laughed, not because the example was ridiculous, but because she had seen that very thing happen many times in her own family.  Or some old curmudgeon that everyone hated would die, and he was suddenly the salt of the earth.

“People do that to respect the dead ... or because they’re afraid of them,” Sara mused.

“But the point is that they convince themselves to forget the bad memories and keep only the good.  Or even create good memories where none existed.  Memory is subjective, Sara.  It’s not a digital photograph;  it’s an impressionist painting.”

“That’s why eye-witnesses are unreliable, even if they are honest,” she said, nodding her understanding.

“Precisely.  Not only are the memories formed through filters, but they often alter over time.  But they still seem so real that people believe them.  They should be considered entertainment, not gospel.”

“So even the memories I’m recalling now could be different from what really happened?”

“Yes.  That’s normal for anyone, but more so for you because you’ve had a head injury.  The memories can be unclear, or partial, or mixed with other memories.  I wouldn’t necessarily put any stock in them unless you can verify them, especially if they are disturbing.”

“Okay, let’s get this to practical terms.  What can I do to make this better?  I’ve got to be able to function without these memories popping up to distract and upset me.”

“What did you do before the injury?  Memories come to us all the time.  We either fall into the daydream or we refocus on our task.  Work on doing the same thing.  Don’t let it subvert what you want to do.  If you are relaxing and want to think about the memory, fine.  If you’re working, or talking to someone, give yourself a good shake and snap out of it.”

“Okay, okay.  I can do this.  I can.  I just have to focus.  I’m a very disciplined person,” she said, a mantra to steel herself for the return to the lab, and a very confused supervisor.

Arriving at the front door to the Crime Lab, Philip Kane asked, “Do you want me to go in with you?  Smooth things over with your boss?”

“No.  I think he’ll understand why I had to get out a while.  Besides, I’m not on the clock.”

“It could get worse before it gets better, Sara.  If you need to talk, here’s my card.  Call me anytime, day or night.”

“You may regret that!” Sara laughed, getting out of the car that had become her cocoon for a few moments. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Sara.  Where have you been?” Grissom asked, his diminishing panic evident in his voice.

Sara felt like a schoolchild who had stayed out past her curfew. 

“I needed some time to think.  I didn’t mean to upset you.  I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely contrite.

“Do you feel better now?” he asked softly.

“Yes.  Thank you.  I do.  There are some things I’d much rather forget than remember.”

“I think everybody feels that way, at one time or another.”

“True.”  Sara nodded, hoping the new-found discomfort between them would fade.

She looked up at his face, searching his eyes and seeing vestiges of the pain of the shared memory.  She could tell that he knew what she had recalled, and that it had brought back the feelings to him, as it had to her.

“Gil ... I ... I ...”

“It’s okay, Sara.  It was a long time ago,” he said, able to now begin to let go of the pain, now that she had acknowledged it, and apologized.

“But I don’t understand.  There’s so much missing.  It’s like being given War and Peace one paragraph at a time, out of order, and having to put it back together again.”

“It’ll all come together, sooner or later,” he assured her.

“Yes, but when it does, am I going to like what I remember?” she asked hesitantly.

“Some of it you probably will.  Some of it you won’t.  I wish you didn’t have to remember any of it,” he said without thinking.

“Gil, please tell me the truth.  What was going on between us?  You told me we weren’t involved.  But then, I ... hurt you.  And I remember other things.  Things that don’t happen between people who are just friends.”

“I told you we weren’t dating,” Grissom clarified.

“That’s true.  So what were we doing?”

“I don’t know what to call it, Sara,” Grissom sighed.

“But there was something.  Wasn’t there?”

“Yes.  Something.”

“Is it gone?” she asked quietly, fearful of his answer.

“It left a long time ago,” Grissom just managed to get out, before his throat constricted in pain.

“When I ... uh ... the thing with the other guy?”  He was nothing!  Nothing!

“Yes,” Gil whispered.  The ‘something’ left, but the feelings didn’t.

“Oh.  I guess that makes sense.  That explains a lot for me.”  Good going, Sara.  Everything was cooking along just fine and you had to go screw it up.  Now it’s over before it really began.  You’re lucky he’s still your friend.

“Do you think ... um ... that there could ever be something again?” she asked, hopefully, but dreading his answer.

“Wait until you get back the rest of your memory before you ask me that.  You may not want to have something again,” Grissom answered.

“What if I don’t get back the rest of my memory?”

“Well, that certainly improves the chances!” Gil quipped, wanting desperately to lighten the mood. 

What we learn with pleasure we never forget.

--Alfred Mercier

It wasn’t the murder that Sara had been hoping for, but a suspected suicide call came in, and it was the next-best thing.  True to his word, Grissom assigned them the case and took her to the scene.

“Put on some gloves,” he instructed, as they walked through the door.  “Walk where I walk.  Okay, you stand here.”

“I know, I know,” Sara mumbled under her breath.  “I may have forgotten the last nine or ten years, but I can remember what you’ve told me over the past few days!”

“Force of habit,” Grissom explained sheepishly.  “When you’re training someone, you need to repeat yourself.  Not every cadet has a mind like yours.”  Or a body like yours ... Stop it!  Focus! 

“You can make it up to me by letting me get closer to the evidence as you’re collecting it.  Can’t see much from the doorway,” Sara offered, with a slight grin.

“This isn’t some smash-and-grab.  The evidence here could mean life-and-death to someone.  It could always turn out to be a homicide.”

Drawing a big “X” across her chest with her fingers, Sara said, “I swear I won’t contaminate your evidence.  You can trust me, Gil.”

“Okay, you can come in.  Walk around ...”

“I know!  I saw how you approached him!” Sara shot back playfully, taking the route Grissom had taken along the wall.

“Tell me everything you see,” Grissom said, hovering near the week-old corpse. 

Sara settled in next to Grissom, scanning the body first, then working outward.

“It’s a suicide,” Sara said confidently.

“And you know that because ...?” Grissom challenged her.

“Primarily the blood spatter.  Okay, victim appears to have succumbed to a single gunshot to the right temporal region, with stippling, showing the weapon was flush to his head.  There’s a 45-caliber Colt lying in his right hand.  Blowback spatter on the gun and his hand shows that this is the weapon used, and he’s the one who held it.  The absence of a void in the patterns on his hand and on the bed and floor shows that no one held his hand to the gun or was standing anywhere near him.  No signs of a struggle or forced entry.  Doors were locked when we arrived.  Not to mention that there’s a suicide note on the bedside table.”

“So, Sherlock, what do we do now?” Grissom teased.

“Take lots of pretty pictures, then go back and take a shower,” Sara answered seriously.

“Use lemons,” Grissom reminded her.

“Lemons?”

“Lemon juice helps take out the smell.  Rinse your skin and hair with lemons.”

She had been fine to that point, but Grissom noticed she started getting pale, and swallowed frequently.

“Don’t get sick in here,” he warned.

“I’m fine.  The lemons just reminded me of something infinitely worse.  Here, hand me the camera.  I’ll take the pictures.  Get my mind off of Liquid Man,” she said through an exaggerated grin.

Grissom gave her the camera and started setting up case identifiers, noting each in the evidence log.  For the next fifteen minutes, the two worked seamlessly, with Grissom marking the evidence, her shooting it, him collecting it, and her filling out the chain-of-custody log.

When they stood to leave, there was a man leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with a closed-mouth grin on his face.

“Looks like you’re getting back in the saddle,” he said to Sara.

“Trying to.  Hey, I know you ... I think,” Sara said, her face collapsing into a frown as she tried to recall his name.

“Don’t strain yourself.  Nothing much to remember,” he teased.

“Hang on.  You’re a detective.  You have an easy name ... I should be able to remember it,” she said, biting the corner of her bottom lip.

“Brass,” he said.

“Oh, yeah!  Easy first name ... er ... John?  No.  Uh, Jim?  Yeah, you’re Jim Brass!” Sara said, beaming.

“That’s right.  I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.  We missed you,” he said in a fatherly tone.

“Thanks!”

“Sometimes I wish I could forget the last decade,” Brass said with a smile.

“It has its benefits,” Sara agreed, wistfully.

Grissom tossed and turned, unable to get his mind clear of her.  Catherine’s words came back to him.  “Gil, she lost her memory, not her personality.  Even if she doesn’t ever get back one memory of you, that doesn’t mean she’s not going to make the same choice all over again.  She’s still Sara.  And you’re still Gil.  Whatever chemistry there is that attracted her in the first place is still there.”

He had thought he had kept everything under control.  He was just being a friend, doing the same thing he would do if it were Catherine, or Nick, or Warrick. 

You don’t touch them.  How many times have you touched her since she woke up at the hospital?

Grissom punched his pillow into submission and buried his face in it.

“But there was something.  Wasn’t there?”

Her face ... so confused.  It’s all starting again.  I’m confusing her already, and it’s only been a couple of weeks.

He flopped over and stared at the ceiling, as if the answer were written there.

“Do you think ... um ... that there could ever be something again?”

Again?  You mean ‘still’?  There will always be ‘something’ there.  I can’t seem to get you out of my mind.  Look at you.  So beautiful.  Looking at me like you are hoping I’ll say ‘yes’.  I should have said ‘no’, but I couldn’t make the word come out.

You had forgotten me.  It hurt, but it was for the best.

You’re making all the same choices.  I’m making all the same choices.  One of us has to make a different choice, or you’re going to be miserable again, and I can’t stand that.

You almost died.  I can’t think about that!  I almost lost you ...

For the first two days in the hospital, I held your hand and told you the things I should have said before.  But, once you came back to me, I couldn’t say the words.  The Sara who needed to hear them was gone.

You were alive, but I still lost you.

Now you’re coming back, a little at a time.  Shouldn’t I tell you now?  No!  You were happier without me.  But that was before.  Now? I don’t know what to do, Sara.  I don’t know what to do about this.

While Memory watches o’er the sad review

Of joys that faded like the morning dew.

--Thomas Campbell

Sara was sleeping fitfully, the sheets twisted around her legs.  She woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in the bed, looking around the room for reassurance. 

It was just a dream.  It’s okay.  Just a dream.

She took a few deep breaths, then looked down, turning her left palm up.  Sara traced her finger gingerly over the scar. 

It wasn’t just a dream.

Sara fought her way out of the binding covers, wanting to run to him, ask him what happened to her.  She wanted him to hold her, tell her she was safe now.

I can see him, I can hear him, but I’m numb ... comfortably numb.  Even my mind is numb.

He looks worried.  Why is he worried?  I’m all right.  I feel fine.

It’s just a scratch.  Why is he looking at it like that? 

“Honey, this doesn’t look good.”

I’m fine.  I don’t want to get stitches.  I don’t want to get up.  I just want to sit here, with him holding my hand.  I’m safe.  He’s all I can sense, the only other person in the world.

Sara rubbed at her eyes, then grabbed the bottle of water off the nightstand, taking a long swig.  Looking again at the pink scar, she decided that this had to be recent.  It was still just a little tender.

“Doesn’t mean the rest of it’s true,” she reminded herself.  “Dreams of memories are often altered.  I know that.  Fantasy merges with memory.”

He’s lying to me.  I can feel it.  He said the ‘something’ left a long time ago. 

Semantics.  That’s how he does it.  He says something to give me one impression, while he’s convinces himself he’s still telling the truth.  “Define ‘involvement’, for the purposes of this conversation.”  Oh, yeah.  You’re a tricky one, Gil.  But I’m on to you.

Sara took another draw on her water, then laid back, feeling a little bit satisfied that she was figuring out the puzzle of Gil Grissom.  She decided not to fall for his semantic tricks anymore.  She was going to have to take the bull by the horns and find out for sure whether he was interested or not.

She was already living at his house, and eating every meal with him.  Sara pondered a few minutes, trying to think of what she could suggest that would obviously constitute a date.  It was like the flash of a camera in her face --

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” I may be smiling, but my stomach is in knots.  What am I doing?  If he wanted to go out, he’d ask me. 

“No.”  The knots are twisting, tighter and tighter.  Well, if I’m going to get shot down, I might as well go out with guns blazing ... so ...

“Why not?  Let’s, let’s have dinner.  Let’s see what happens.” 

“Sara ... I don’t know what to do about this.”  He knows.  He’s not stupid.  He just doesn’t want me. 

I know it was after the explosion, and that wasn’t long ago.  I’ve been working here three years. That means I’ve been after this guy for three years.  That’s just sick. 

What an incredible fool I’ve been!  Not once, no, not Sara, the overachiever.  I had to do it twice!  I fell for the same guy twice!  What is this?  Some sort of kharmic retribution? 

I’m not going to do it.  I’m not going to follow around after him like a puppy for another three years.  Not gonna happen.  Not this time.

Knowing that sleep was impossible, Sara got up and began to pack her things, trying to be as quiet as possible.  She would go back to her apartment;  the decor seemed much more fitting to her now. 

She pulled on her clothes, stuffing the pajamas into her overnight bag.  She made the bed and tidied up, wanting to leave it essentially as she found it. 

Taking a deep breath, Sara opened the door and hefted up her bags, lugging them down the hallway.  She had to set one down to open his front door.

“Need help with that?”

His question startled her. 

“I thought you would still be asleep,” Sara said, looking down at her bags.

“Couldn’t sleep.  Are you leaving?” Grissom asked hoarsely.

“Yeah.  I’ve been under foot long enough.  I figured I’d go back to my apartment.”

“You’re not under foot.  I like having you here,” Grissom said, surprised that the admission wasn’t as uncomfortable to make as he had thought it would be.

“I better go,” she said, her voice wavering with emotion.

“Sara, come talk to me,” he said, holding out his hand as an invitation.

She didn’t take his hand, but she nodded and followed him to the living room, sitting down in the chair to keep her distance from him.

“What’s wrong?” Gil asked.

“Nothing.  It’s just time for me to go,” she said, putting on as calm a front as she could.

“Did I do or saying something wrong?” Grissom asked, unable to think of anything untoward that happened at work or on the drive home.  They had both gone almost immediately to their rooms after a quiet, but pleasant breakfast, so he couldn’t fathom what had happened.

“No,” she shrugged.

Grissom walked over to crouch in front of her, gathering up her hands.  “Tell me what’s going on.”

Sara looked at him, at his eyes.  They seemed a little sad, yet seemed to promise her something. 

Pulling her hands slowly from his, Sara reached up to lay a hand on his cheek, a sad smile forming on her lips.  Without conscious thought, she bent forward and kissed him, drawing her hands around his neck.

“Sara ...” he said, tilting his head back and gently tugging her arms from around his neck. 

Sara recognized the voice.  It was the same voice he used when he turned her down before.  She stood abruptly, almost knocking him over.  She stormed towards the door, then whirled to face him, her body shaking in anger.

“Damn you!  Damn you, Grissom!  You knew!  You knew, damn it!  And you did nothing to stop it!  Why did you even come to the hospital?  Why did you bring me here?  You knew how I felt before!  What made you think it would be any different this time?”

“I was trying to be a friend,” he answered lamely.

“Fine.  Be a friend.  Call a cab to take me home,” she said bitterly.

“I’ll take you home,” he sighed, picking up his keys from the coffee table.

“I don’t want you to take me home.  I don’t want to have one more thing to do with you.”

“What brought all this on?  What did you remember?” Grissom asked gently, approaching her slowly.

“Let’s just say that I know this isn’t the first time you’ve blown me off.  But I can assure you it will be the last!”

“I think I understand,” Grissom said, realizing that she had remembered the one thing he had hoped she wouldn’t.  He looked at her contritely, feeling the double guilt of her experiencing it again.

“Sara, I wish I could get you to understand.  It’s not that I don’t want to.  I do.”

“Save it for another fool, Grissom!  It doesn’t really matter anyway.  The end result is the same whether you want to or not.  The point is, you’re not going to play with my feelings  anymore.”

“You’re right.  I’m sorry.  I wasn’t trying to lead you on this time.  Not this time.  I really was trying to be the friend I should have been all along.  But I went too far.  I know that.  I’m sorry.”

Sara didn’t expect an apology.  Though she couldn’t remember if he had ever apologized before, it seemed unusual to her, so she assumed he never had.  Her fury began to dissipate, leaving only a feeling of loss, and shame at her foolishness.

“Will you take me home, please?” she asked, coolly, but civilly.

“Yes, I will.  Let me get that,” he said, grabbing for the suitcase.

“I can get it myself,” Sara shot back, heaving the bag up and tromping down the stairs outside.

Grissom sighed a dragon breath and pushed on his sunglasses. 

Maybe a little time by herself to decompress will be a good thing.  I’ll give her some time, then maybe she’ll let me explain.  Maybe by then, I’ll know what to say.

It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory.

--F. Scott Fitzgerald)

“Where’s your shadow?” Catherine asked cheerfully, sticking her head through the door of Grissom’s office.

“At her apartment,” he answered, trying for nonchalant, but failing.

Catherine oozed in and shut the door.  Grissom sat back in his chair, knowing that the conversation was just beginning, not ending.

“What happened?” Catherine asked sympathetically.

“She remembered some things I had hoped she wouldn’t,” he answered.

“That must have been very uncomfortable ... for both of you.”

“It was.  Very.  You were right, Catherine.  About everything.”

Catherine took no pleasure in being right this time.  She sighed and leaned back heavily in her chair.

“Now what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe after she’s had some time to calm down, she’ll let me explain.”

“Oh, I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that one!” Catherine huffed.

Grissom shot her an annoyed glare.

“Gil, be realistic.  What could you possibly say that would make it any better?  She’s going to feel hurt and stupid.”

“I could tell her the truth.”

“How much of the truth?” Catherine asked, not quite believing him.

“All of it.”

“And how would that help?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, burying his face in his hands.

“What is the truth, Gil?  Do you even know?”

“I think so.  I know I don’t want to hurt her anymore.  I know how I felt when I thought she was going to die.”

“Gil.  I’m your friend.  I know that we all gossip around here, but I promise this will stay between us.  You and Sara have always been attracted to each other.  That’s always been obvious.  This isn’t just a physical thing, is it?”

Grissom snorted.  “I wish it were.  That would be easy enough to deal with.  No, it’s not just a physical thing.”

“Do you love her?”

Grissom narrowed his eyes.  He didn’t really need the time to think about the answer, so much as time to think about what it meant.

“Yes,” he nodded.

“How much?”

“As much as I can,” he shrugged, not sure what scale women used to measure love.

“What would you be willing to sacrifice for her ... to make her happy?”

“I could try again to leave her alone.”

“That’s not what I mean, Gil.  If you two are within the same solar system, you won’t be able to stay apart for long.  Think again.”

Grissom sat frozen in thought.  He couldn’t think of anything he had of value to sacrifice.  He looked beseeching at Catherine for clues.

She sighed.  Apparently I’m going to have to drag this out of him.  “Gil, which is more important to you?  Your pride or Sara?”

“Sara,” he answered confidently.

“Okay.  Which is more important?  Your job or Sara?”

Grissom had been prepared to answer before he heard the question, but he stopped once he heard it, looking perplexed.  He had always thought of his job as a given – a stable anchor in his life.  His interactions with Sara had been anything but stable. 

“Gil, until you can answer that question, stay away from her.”

“Catherine, if I knew that all I had to do was give up my job for us to be happy together, I’d do it in a second.  There are forensics jobs everywhere.  I can do other things, too.  I can teach.  I can write.”

“But?”

“But what if I give it all up, and she’s not happy with me?”

“In what way?  Give me context here.”

“Catherine, please.  Don’t make me spell it out.  I’m a lot older than she is,” Grissom said with no small amount of embarrassment.

“Give her some test-drives.  Let her decide that now, rather than later.”

“You have the soul of a poet,” Grissom retorted.  “But the point isn’t about now;  it’s about later.  Ten years from now I’ll be approaching sixty, and she’ll just be getting to your age.”

“Gil, you can’t live your life that way, worrying about ten years from now.  In ten years any one of us could be dead and buried.  Tell me the truth.  When you first got to the hospital, were you worried about what could happen in ten years?”

“No,” Grissom whispered, the feelings of that night welling up in him. 

“You don’t have to tell me what you said to her when you first saw her, but I want you to remember it.  Every word.”

Sara, please don’t leave me.  I love you.  I’ve always loved you.  Please stay with me.  I promise I’ll never hurt you again.  I’ll do anything you want, say anything you want, if you’ll just come back to me.  Please, Sara, give me just one more chance.  I love you.

“It’s easy enough to say things when she’s asleep.  Be man enough to say them to her when she’s looking you in the eye.”

Stacking the filled boxes into two piles, Sara realized that she needed more boxes.  She had not actually accumulated all that many possessions, but she had underestimated how many boxes she would need.  She considered it an embarrassing mistake for a physicist.  It was a simple enough problem to calculate the volume of the items she was packing, and the volume of each box.  Divide.  Buy that many boxes. 

Still unwilling to put her mind through even such a mundane task, she estimated that she’d need ten more boxes.  So I’ll buy a dozen.  That should cover it.

Snatching up her purse and keys, Sara slid on her sunglasses and headed for the door, glad to be taking a break from her labors in this dreary apartment.

She pulled the door open, just as Grissom was raising his hand to knock. 

“Oh, hi,” she said.

“On your way out?” he asked meekly.

“What was your first clue?” she shot back at him.

“Sara, can we talk?”

“I don’t have anything more to say to you, and I doubt very seriously that you have anything of value to say to me.”

“Could you humor me and listen anyway?” he asked, taking off his sunglasses.

Sara tilted her head down slightly, peering at him over her shades.  There was something in his eyes that intrigued her.  Cursing herself for her weakness, she stepped back and swept her hand out, inviting him in.

Grissom had been looking at her as he walked in, but when she walked towards her couch, he could see that she had been packing her books and mementos.  There were several boxes stacked in two groups.  One group was marked ‘Books’ on the outside.  The other group was unmarked as yet.

A wave of panic seized him, as he realized that he was too late.  She was not only leaving him, but leaving Las Vegas.  He stood dumbfounded, the words he had been rehearsing on the drive over to her apartment evanescent in his mind.

“Yoo hoo, Grissom!  What did you want to say?” Sara said harshly, waving a hand in front of his face.

“You’re leaving?” he finally croaked out.

“Very astute.  No wonder you are so good at your job,” Sara shot back acidly.

“Sara, stop it,” Grissom pleaded.

“Stop what?  Stop feeling like you’ve made a fool of me?  That’s what I’m trying to do.  I’m going home before you give me any more bad memories to take with me.”

“I’m the fool, Sara, not you.  I know that.”

Sara sat down on her couch, trying t