A Stitch in Time

Note: Remember all those holiday specials where someone lived one day over and over again until they got everything right and learned the value of Christmas spirit? Well, this is kind of like that. Except there's no Christmas spirit, there's a limit to the number of times Sara & Co. can try to save Grissom, and, despite the implications of this introduction, it's not a comedy. Also, I swear this was outlined before I even heard about The Butterfly Effect. Good movie, though.

Other Note: If you never saw "Stalker" in Season Two - - first off, you missed out, because that episode was a work of suspenseful art. But secondly, there was an apparently genuine psychic named Morris Pearson who assisted Grissom with the investigation. And that's approximately all you need to know.

Disclaimer: I still don't own CSI or it's characters. It's a point of growing frustration. Still, I make no money by doing this.

PEARSON: "You see science without abstractions. I see visions with abstractions. Am I less credible than you, Mr. Grissom?"

- "Stalker"

Chapter One: The Whirlwind

Sara was in the center of a whirlwind.

Something had come upon her, torn her world to pieces, and taken the most valuable part of her life away from her, on a whimsical, bloody flight to some horribly separate elsewhere. There was nothing left of her, not here, not on this faux-green lawn with the mourners around her, and her soul disconnected. She was standing there, her heart was beating, and somehow, she kept breathing, but there was no longer anything holding her to the earth.

Grissom was gone. She was gone.

The only difference between the two of them was that she was still alive. She was standing there, watching the smooth, silken coffin be lowered down and further down, and she continued to live, although she couldn't being to understand why.

She was cold. There was sweat on her fingertips, and near her hair, and she could feel the sun, but it, like everything else, seemed separated. Her body was warm, but she shivered anyway, in spite of the temperature. In spite of the sunshine.

It should have been raining, anyway. Why should it be so sunny the day they buried Grissom?

Catherine was crying. Nick was crying. Greg was crying. Warrick was close.

Her eyes were dry. Her eyes were as far from her as the rest of her body. She couldn't feel, couldn't think, could only stay, shuttered behind a great many windows, watching this spectacle. This bleak parade. She had no chances anymore. She had, then, lost him. Not to a denial or another woman, but to the earth. The ground, with its worms, and its darkness.

Was it cold there? Was he crying like them?

You're a scientist, Sara told herself. You don't have to have a religion. You don't have to believe in God.

Good. She hated God, anyway. A bullet wound was preventable. A truly merciful God would have been able to stop the bullet, save Grissom, and given him back to her, whole and unharmed, with a quizzical look in his eyes and a hundred theories about what could have happened. Sara wasn't as farsighted. She just wanted to take back the gunshot, and then be content with whatever followed.

She never wanted to be a cliché. Never wanted to feel the anger and denial the loved ones feel at a death - - but she stood there, knowing it and hating it, but still thinking the same things, like all victims do:

This shouldn't have happened.

This is unfair.

This is not real.

They were still crying, and Sara pulled away from this, ashamed of inability to weep, and of her inability to comfort. The grief was too intense, too intimate in the center, so close to the grave. They were touching - - just simple brushes against shoulders, but Nick and Catherine were squeezing their hands so tightly that Sara could see Catherine's rings pressing into Nick's skin, and Lindsey was clinging to Warrick and Greg was caught between the two of them like a butterfly in a net. They were all connected, and soon, they would notice that she was not, and they would try to remedy it.

She would not let them. A touch would make her scream. She loved them, and so she ran from them - - walked, really, but as swiftly as she could - - from the inner circle of the gathering to the fringes, where no one was comforted, and people were quieter.

She recognized a few faces. Cops. Victims' families. They looked at her, uncertain, and Sara knew what they were seeing - - a pale, strained young woman with grief already settling like an early frost over her features. Her grief was stronger. They were casual mourners, there out of respect, or a vague, unsung sadness, and she was there because she had been in love, so foolishly in love, with the man that they were grieving so half-heartedly.

They did not know what to do with her. She let them offer their sentiments as she passed through the uneasy ripples of people, until she came to the wide tree at the edge of the burial ground, and leaned against it.

The bark was prickly, even through her dress. The fabric was black, and sheer, and she was probably tearing and dirtying it by touching the tree, but she didn't and couldn't care. She raised her face and let the sun hit it as the light filtered through the leaves. She wondered if it was dyeing her eyelids green.

"Miss Sidle?"

Sara didn't answer; didn't look. She was a dryad; a nymph; invisible.

The voice, anxious but polite, repeated its inquiry. "I'm sorry, but are you Miss Sara Sidle?"

The air on her face was cooler, and she finally opened her eyes. The man in front of her looked flustered, but not at all dangerous. She didn't recognize him. His floppy beige suit made him stand out in the throng of black and charcoal outfits. He looked to be in his late thirties, with unkempt, acorn-colored hair, and a flittering smile.

"Yes," she said. "I'm Sara." She thought about tacking something, but all possible statements sounded bizarre. Can I help you? Who are you? Why are you bothering me? Can't you see that I don't want to talk?

The man nodded enthusiastically. "My name is Morris Pearson. I worked with Mr. Grissom on the Jane Galloway case, two years ago."

Sara found herself pulled towards him, her mind darting back against her will to search through her memories of that case to find Pearson's relevancy. The Jane Galloway case hadn't been an easy one to forget - - not for her, and certainly not for Nick. But she didn't remember Pearson. "Are you . . . a cop?" she asked hesitantly. "I don't remember you testifying at the Crane trial last year."

"I was . . . unavailable," Pearson said. "And no, I'm not connected with law enforcement."

"Oh," she said, understanding, or trying to, anyway. "You were a consultant."

"Something like that," he said, with a smile.

"Mr. Pearson, this really isn't a good time for me. My supervisor - - well, I'm very upset. If we could talk about this later - - "

Pearson's eyes were wide. "Later might be too late, Miss Sidle."

"It's too late for a lot of things," Sara said, thinking about denial and want. Thinking about Grissom, and the coffin. She tried to smile at him, but couldn't. Her face still felt numb with pain. She wished she could try and get the tension out. No one was watching them, and Pearson didn't look like the kind to mind if she cried. But nothing would come from her, not a tear or a sigh. Too late.

Wasn't it always?

"But there won't be enough time," Pearson said desperately. "I should have come earlier, but things were very difficult, and I understood that you were grieving. I'm very sorry for intruding like this - - but there's a great deal you need to understand if you're going to save him. Things you must understand."

She didn't feel like understanding anything or saving anyone. She felt like sleeping. If she slept long enough and deeply enough, maybe she would dream of Grissom.

"I have to go," she said.

She was out of the shadow of the tree when she heard Pearson say, very softly:

"If you help me, he could live."

She stopped. Her shoes seemed to squeak on the grass. Stupid stuff, so artificially green, as if no one realized that the grass didn't grow that way in Vegas. She could hear her heartbeat, amplified a hundred times, but still not enough to fill the silence.

"Who?"

It came out in a whisper, but she knew that he heard.

"Mr. Grissom, of course," Pearson said. He was behind her. She felt his touch on her shoulder, and she didn't scream; didn't shatter. He was quiet, reassuring. "I know where I am, Miss Sidle. I know that this is his funeral. You think that it's too late to save him, but it's not. Sometimes," he said, and she could almost hear a faint smile in his voice, "the dead do not stay dead. Sometimes they live, or never die."

"And I - - "

"You love him," Pearson said. "You can always find him, can't you?"

"Science says that what you're talking about is ridiculous. Time travel. Reversals. Resurrections. This isn't funny, Mr. Pearson." She could still feel the faint urge inside her, though - - the wanting to believe, the need to have another way out, because wasn't it true that this death wasn't fair? That it shouldn't have happened? She swallowed. Dust seemed to have gathered in her throat. "This - - it isn't funny. It isn't possible."

"Wouldn't it be worth it this once? To prove science wrong? Miss Sidle, you really are Mr. Grissom's other half. You both have that same, inexplicable denial of belief. You know what you want, and both of you refuse so adamantly to accept it. To take it." His breath was warm on her ear. "I am giving you the chance of a lifetime. Of a hundred lifetimes."

"It isn't true," she said.

"Did you love him?"

"Yes," she said angrily. If this wasn't so crazy, she'd think she was going insane - - admitting that to some stranger, some prattling, evangelistic stranger, at her boss's funeral. She turned again to face him.

"Do you still?"

"Yes. Yes, all right?"

"Would you do anything for him?"

"Yes," she whispered. Confession; good for the soul. Where was her soul? Where was Grissom's? "Anything."

"Then go back to your friends. Talk with Mr. Stokes." Pearson now sounded almost amused. "I'm glad to see that he's well, though I'm sorry about the circumstances. I do wish we could have become better acquainted before that messy affair. He seemed like a nice young man, and I believe he'll tell you what you need to know. And Miss Sidle. . ."

She couldn't breathe. She gripped her purse. "Yes?"

"Please," Pearson said, "try to hurry. Time is more important than you know."

She was torn - - part of her wanted to immediately agree, but the rest of her was balking against this unreasonable request. She was grieving for a boss, and, sure, yeah, let's get the facts out in the open, the man she'd loved, and this guy was trying to get her to open a conversation with Nick - - Nick who was grieving just as violently by the casket itself - - and all for some contrived, elaborate, cruel joke.

Because Grissom couldn't live again. She'd seen enough autopsies to not believe in the rising dead.

Pearson frowned. "You're doubting, Miss Sidle."

"You sick bastard," she said quietly, wanting to scream at him but not wanting to disturb the other mourners in their solemn circles. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"It's a chance," he said. "You're being given a second chance. Someone has to know about it. Someone has to be able to see. I'm not going to be enough, and you're the best choice. His lover - -"

"I was not his lover."

Pearson sighed. "Lovers in body and lovers in spirit are two different concepts, Miss Sidle, and I believe you are astute enough to see the difference. You are kindred to Mr. Grissom - - his other half. Do I need to elaborate further? You are the one who could find him, no matter the odds. Mr. Stokes could do well, and Ms. Willows, perhaps, slightly better than him - - Misters Brown and Sanders would likely fall into the same realm of chance." He looked at her with damp, fawn-colored eyes, and something in them made her uneasy. They were serious. They were grave. "And I could use another, Miss Sidle, but it would be so difficult. Maybe too difficult."

"You aren't even saying anything that makes sense," she said, but she could feel herself weakening. Scientist or not, how could she resist the possibility that there might be some kind of reversal hidden inside of death? And Pearson looked almost pathetically honest, as if a lie had never even tried to stroll off his tongue. Still, she clung to reason, the way a swimmer might cling to a buoy before going under one final time. "The dead don't live."

"You should really talk to Mr. Stokes," Pearson said again. "He'll tell you what you want to know."

"Nick - - knows something about this? About Grissom?"

"He knows something of me. Of my reputation. I told you that I assisted on the Jane Galloway case - - unfortunately, you and I did not meet - - this might be easier if we had. But I did become briefly acquainted with Mr. Stokes in that regrettable matter."

Oh, what harm is it going to do? If he's crazy, then Nick won't know what I'm talking about and I can chalk it up later to grief, if he ever asks. And if I'm crazy, then I'm crazy, and that'll almost be a relief. But if this is real - - if there's some possibility - -

Morris Pearson smiled at her. "You're developing the right attitude now, Miss Sidle," he said happily. "Go down to Mr. Stokes. I'll wait here, in the shade."

She nodded, dazed, and made her way down to Nick, again, back through the throng of mourners, now deserting the calm green field for their cars. She was glad that he wasn't talking to anyone, because she only had the slimmest of precepts to pull him away. She put her hand on his arm and he let himself be led away from the circle and into the peace of other tombstones, other bouquets of flowers. He wasn't crying anymore - - not really - - but his eyes were still wet, and his cheeks were streaked from tears.

She felt so foolish asking him this, but she looked back and saw Pearson peering down at her from the slight rise, looking hopeful. And wasn't foolish hope better than no hope at all?

Nick touched her hand. "I'm sorry, Sara. Really sorry. I know you - - we never said it, but we all knew. That you loved him. I mean, I think he loved you back." His mouth squirmed and almost suckered into a sob. "I'm not doing this right. I guess I'm not great at consolation."

She squeezed his hand and then let it down gently.

"Thank you, Nick. Really. It means something."

"Not much," Nick said, looking back at the casket, "but then, I can't think of a lot of things that mean much right now."

"I can think of one thing," she said, surprised by the somber, deadly-serious tone in her voice. "Listen, this is going to sound crazy, but I just need you to tell me."

Nick smiled at her, his lips tense across his teeth. "Hey, go ahead. What's not crazy?"

"Two years ago - - Nigel Crane . . ."

Nick visibly flinched and tried to cover it up by running a hand across his face, shaking the tears off his skin and onto the ground. He had gone white. They had never talked about Nigel Crane, and she wondered now if that might have been a mistake. She didn't even know if Nick still thought about Crane, and thought, from his horrified look, that he still did. She wondered if he had nightmares, and woke up screaming. She wondered, but still couldn't ask.

Nick kept his voice steady as he asked, "What about Nigel Crane?"

"That case - - well, the Jane Galloway case, really - - do you remember a man named Morris Pearson?"

To her surprise, he chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah, Grissom's psychic." His eyes darkened again, the momentary relief vanishing. "He - - uh, he tried to warn me. He came to my house."

"A psychic," she said flatly.

"Yeah." Nick flushed. "I know it sounds stupid - - really stupid - - but he kind of seemed to be the genuine article. You know, if you could even say there is one. He tipped Grissom off to Crane hiding in Jane's attic, and, like I said, he tried to warn me. Came to my house, said I was in danger. He said he saw my address in a vision." His eyes were misty, far-away in thought, remembering. "Green tee."

"Green tea?"

"Green tee," he said. "Like the letter. I had a rug - - that's where Nigel Crane crashed through the rafters, on the Texas rug. Pearson was there."

"He told you that? He saw that?"

"Yeah," Nick said. "Poor guy. I never even got to apologize to him, you know? I just wish I could have thanked him or something."

"I don't remember seeing him afterwards," she said. She was close to something, so achingly close, and was getting the same feeling that she did sometimes when she was inches away from crucial evidence. She could hear the wind roar past her ears, feel it blow her hair back into a dark veil. "Shouldn't he have testified, if he was there when Crane showed up?"

"He couldn't," Nick said softly, regretfully. "He died."

The wind seemed to stop. She stood there.

"He died," she repeated.

"Yeah. He went into the attic, and Crane killed him. I don't think it would have been the best way to die. I - - I guess it's kind of my fault." He looked at her earnestly. "Are you okay, Sara? Why does it matter about Morris Pearson? Why now?"

Because not five minutes ago, he and I were talking, and he told me I could save Grissom, because sometimes death can be fixed. A ghost or a dead man told me that I could make it okay. He said such beautiful, impossible things, and now I have to believe him, because what you're telling me makes it true. He's dead himself, and you're saying that even when he was alive, he saw more than anyone has the right to see. So I'm going to go back there, Nick, and if that means I'm going to go crazy, well, I'm okay with that. Because crazy would be worth it.

She shrugged, the motion small and restricted under the tight shoulders of her black dress.

"I was just - - I heard Grissom talk about before, but I couldn't remember what he said. And it was bothering me. I want to remember everything."

He smiled at her, his eyes still terribly sad. "I wish there was some way to undo this," he said. "Just any way at all."

She looked back at Pearson, still standing in the shade. She could see the gleam of his teeth when he smiled at her, so clearly knowing that she was sold. She'd heard all she needed to hear.

Sara looked back at Nick. "Yeah. Me too. I'd do anything."

"I always watch these things," he said. "Funerals. I always watch out my car window when I drive by a cemetery, and I'll see the burial, and I'll wonder if it was anyone I knew. Or if there could have been anything done to stop it. We always see people after they've killed, after they've died. We can't prevent anything from happening." A single tear ran down his cheek, and landed near the corner of his mouth. She wondered if he could taste the salt on his lips. "Sometimes I've felt useless, but never as much as right here, right now."

And then Sara knew why she had really needed to talk with Nick. Not just to listen to him tell her that Pearson was dead, not just to confirm the idea that the dead aren't always quiet, but to really solidify her decision. Because everything he said was true, and everything he said, she'd thought, and she was sure of one thing:

She wasn't going to be useless this time.

"Now, would you like some tea? Or perhaps some hot chocolate?"

Pearson held the kettle out towards her like a peace offering, his eyebrows raised. He had left his floppy beige suit-jacket on her sofa, and had rolled up his shirtsleeves as if getting down, finally, to some serious work. Then he had proceeded to rummage in her kitchen cabinets and produce a shiny red kettle that Sara couldn't remember purchasing.

"I don't have any tea," she said. "Or any hot chocolate. In fact, I'm not sure I even have that kettle."

He frowned at it. "It's here, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "Whatever. A ghost is standing in my kitchen, and I'm quibbling about a magically-appearing kettle. Go ahead and see if you can find some tea."

"My mother," Pearson said confidentially, "used to tell me that tea was always part of the solution." He produced a box of Lipton just as easily as he'd produced the kettle, and went to work. "She was born in England, and she seemed to enjoy living the stereotype. However, I've found that that particular aphorism of motherly lore is true."

"My mother used to tell me that smoking a joint helped with nerves before a big test," Sara said. "And then she'd pause, remember she was a parent, and tell me never to do drugs."

Pearson smiled. He left the kettle on her stove and made his way into her connecting living room and joined her on the sofa.

"Your mother loved you a great deal," he said. "And she still does."

She looked at him, shocked, and then raised her eyes to the few pictures on her mantle. One of them showed her mother helping her paint her into a tiger costume for her tenth Halloween. She was smiling, her face striped in orange-and-black face-paint, and big whiskers drooping off her cheeks. Her mother was pulling the long striped tail attached the fuzzy suit. Hamming it up for her dad's camera, sure, but enjoying each other nonetheless.

"Yeah, she does."

"I can't read minds," Pearson said. "That's one thing I've never been able to do, and I'm still unable. But the past is sometimes as visible as the future."

"I thought you could," she said. "When we were talking before, you knew that I didn't believe you."

He scoffed, shaking his head. His hazel eyes were still remarkably kind. "That, Miss Sidle, would have been apparent to someone with no psychic abilities whatsoever. You wear your thoughts on your sleeve, and it never takes a psychic to read what's written there."

He was sweet, but she couldn't just keep talking about thoughts and tea while Grissom was being buried just a few miles away. She made herself smile, and said, "Can we talk about Grissom?"

"Of course we'll talk about Mr. Grissom," Pearson said, sounding genuinely surprised. "I told you that there wasn't much time, and I was telling the truth. Well, there was a slight exaggeration so that you would hurry and talk with Mr. Stokes, but it was not much of an exaggeration. So yes, we need to discuss Mr. Grissom."

"Good," she said, but now that the moment was there, she was nervous. She crossed her legs and folded her hands over her knees. Somehow, their conversation before, as ludicrous as it had been by her usual standards, had been easy, almost like banter. But now, things were going to grow difficult.

"But first," he said, "the tea."

He rose and poured two cups. Sara sipped at hers. It smelled and tasted heavenly.

"I really, really don't think that I bought this."

Pearson smiled; enigmatic. He rose the cup to his mouth and took a long drink before putting it down neatly on a coaster. He leaned forward, suddenly all business.

"Mr. Stokes has told you that I died, and so I presume that you've accepted this. You called me a ghost earlier, but that's not precisely true. Ghosts are insubstantial." He touched her hand as Nick had earlier, a brief, solid tap. "I have substance. I am not sure as to my visibility - - you, obviously, can see me. I suspect that I may only be visible to those who do not know I am dead, but that is only a suspicion."

"That's why you didn't come with me to talk to Nick," she said.

"I liked Mr. Stokes," Pearson said, nodding. "I didn't want to startle him."

"Okay," she said, "good on you."

He looked uncertain, cleared his throat, and continued. "I am here so that Mr. Grissom may live. Not just this," he said, with a gesture encompassing his body, "but real life, untouched by death. I came to talk with you, and tell you what I may."

"So, you were dead." She couldn't resist, and asked. "Is there any afterlife?"

Pearson nodded. "It's nice."

She waited for more, but he gave her nothing, so she just let him continue with his own explanation of his purpose. She drank more tea.

"It's not time travel," he said. "It's far more complicated than that, and far messier. Time travel would be a joy compared to what I have to ask of you. Please forgive me for that, Miss Sidle."

"Sara," she said. "And - - whatever it takes, whatever the cost, it'll be worth it."

He had started to smile when she asked him to use her first name, but as she continued, it faded away. He looked mournful instead. "I wish you wouldn't say that," he said. "Saying things like 'whatever the cost' usually only brings about bad luck, and we don't need any of that."

"Couldn't agree with you more," she said, "but it's true."

His mournful look turned to a sort of odd, righteous anger. "You don't mean that, Miss - - Sara. You can't mean that. Sometimes, the cost is too high, and you'll have to know that. You'll have to be able to recognize when there's nothing you can do, and surrender."

"I don't surrender," she said shortly.

"What if the price was more than you could afford?"

"Like what?"

He picked up his teacup again and curved his hands around it. He closed his eyes, and then held it out towards her, eyes beseeching. "Take a look," he said, "and I think you'll see what I mean."

She bent her head over the cup and, for a few seconds, saw nothing but tea. Then the light brown surface seemed to flex under her gaze, and change into a watery image, like a reflection. But what she could see in the small circle of the teacup wasn't her own face, but Nick's. He was bent almost double, and he raised his face to her. When he opened his mouth, all that came out was blood.

It changed without warning into Greg, smiling self-consciously at her as if he could see beyond the film of tea, and then the picture drew back like a camera, and she saw him step off a chair. The noose circled his neck and her vision traveled up the rope and to Warrick.

He was empty already, just a body in a tomb.

And then Grissom looked at her from the cup, his eyes accusatory and painfully sad. He shook his head.

The tea was just shifting to show a glimpse of blonde hair - - Catherine - - when her hands shook so badly that she sloshed it against the sides, wavering the image, and she looked up at Pearson, felt her lips narrow and tighten, and flung the cup away as hard as she could.

It shattered against the wall, and she fell back against the couch. He caught her arm, and then she cried for the first time that day. She'd had too much truckle with the dead in the last twenty-four hours, and she leaned against him, sobbing. He patted her back and whispered soothing things she couldn't hear until she drew back.

She wiped at her eyes. She hated to cry.

"I don't think I'm going to forgive you for that," she said, her voice still trembling. "I don't think I can."

"Do you understand now?"

"I understand," she said bitterly. "I couldn't do that. I couldn't pay that."

"I'm sorry to have hurt you, Miss Sidle," he said.

She didn't insist on informality this time. She was still sick from seeing that. Nick's eyes had looked so wide, so terrified - - and Grissom's, later - - he'd known. She knew without asking that that vision was Grissom living, and somehow knowing what the price she'd paid for his life had been. That was a Grissom who thought the bargain too expensive - - far too expensive. And yes, it had gotten his point across, but she really didn't think she could forgive Pearson for showing it to her. The images were burned into her mind, like individual case-files, and she couldn't banish them.

"Tell me about this," she said quietly. "This thing that isn't time-travel. This thing that might cost too much - - tell me what it is."

"There's no name for it," Pearson said, falling back into his speech. "Some of the most important things in the world go nameless, and this is one of them."

"So what do you call it?"

"Stitching," he said. "Like a stitch in time."

"Saves nine," she said lightly. "But I'm only trying to save one right now."

He nodded. "We stitch," he said, "and we save. But you can't make a stitch without losing some thread. You have to have a knot at each end - - something to hold you down so you don't go spiraling through time unconnected. And you have to spend some of yourself to get what you want."

"Your metaphors are unwinding. Can you be a little more specific?"

"You're going to need someone to be with you on either side. In this time, and back at the beginning of all of this. You'll have to tell someone, at least in vague terms, what you're trying to do, and get them to be your anchor."

"So now it's not stitching, it's sailing. How do they be my anchor?"

"Not right now," Pearson said. He walked to the kitchen and poured them second cups of the fragrant tea. Sara sipped at hers, not looking at the glistening surface, afraid of seeing another future in the cup.

When Morris Pearson returned, he drank in silence for a few seconds, and then cradled the cup in his large, thin hands. "You are going to stitch backwards. There are two ends on this piece of thread - - the places where it goes into the fabric of time. You can go back to the beginning of this stitch, or to the end. The end is the funeral where the two of us met."

"Where's the beginning?"

"I'm not sure. We'll have to see."

"And I have an anchor at either end to hold me onto the big cross-stitch hoop of time?"

"Yes. You find your anchor at either end - - whichever is more convenient - - explain what you are going to do, and ask them to help you."

"What do they do?"

"If you are to succeed, Miss Sidle, they are to believe you. You'll have to make them willing to accept that the fulcrum of their world is not where they thought it was, and then - - well, they'll have their own things to do, as anchors. But you aren't an anchor, you're a needle."

"Will you be one of my anchors?"

Pearson sipped his tea. "That's very sweet of you, Miss Sidle, but I'm not living, and the dead cannot hold you down. You are the needle, and I am the hand. I guide. You stitch. And you have to trust the others to restrain you. You'll understand when you find them."

She found that it was easier to deal with if she took it a step at a time, and pretended that some of it was scientific. To her relief, Pearson's metaphor of sewing was actually helping, because she could relate it to something understandable. So she analyzed, and remembered, and drank her tea.

"I go back in time," she said, "and I change things."

"Yes," Pearson said slowly, "but that's not everything. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts, Miss Sidle. You'll find that time is very resistant to change. Things will try to remain the same, and you'll have to fight against that. I would like to tell you that I know everything about how this is going to happen, but I know next to nothing. I don't even know how many chances you'll have, let alone how many you use. I can tell you what I've seen in visions, and that's all."

He leaned forward and touched her hand again, this time not to reassure her of his solidity, but to simply reassure her.

"I know that you resent me for showing you what could be," he said, "and if you don't want me to tell you what else could be, I'll understand. But I can't do much to help you, and, outside of friendship, this is all that I have to offer you."

In Sara's mind, Grissom turned and looked back at her from the shimmering cup of tea, his eyes condemning, scornful.

"If it will help," she said, "I'll take what I can get."

She pulled a magazine off her table and snapped the cap off a pen. She scribbled as he talked.

He folded his hands against each other. Closed his eyes. "Rain and tears, smoke and scars. A curved mirror with four reflections." He opened his eyes and looked at her, faltering. "A - - a gun, a knife, a silken scarf. A song with no words, heralding death. That's all."

Her hand stilled after spelling out the last word, and she tore the magazine's cover off and stuffed it in the pocket of her jacket, then paused.

"Is this going to stay with me?"

He nodded. "That's something of mine, in a sense, so it will stay even when you stitch." He raised his hand and set it against her cheek in a motion that should have been uncomfortably intimate, but wasn't. His hand was cool and dry, his eyes compassionate. "Do well, Miss Sidle, and save the one you intend to save. I wish you the best of fortune, and again, I am sorry to have hurt you."

She managed to smile at him when he lifted his hand from her face. He was sorry, and she had needed to see that, even if she still couldn't forgive him entirely.

"Am I going to run into you again?"

"Yes," Pearson said, "I imagine we'll come across each other somewhere." He sighed, and it struck her oddly - - the sound was too forlorn for him. Then he shook his head. "Drink your tea, Miss Sidle."

She lifted her cup again, brought it to her lips, and as the warm, sweet tea touched her lips, she felt the world tilt underneath her, swaying until the tea fell forwards onto her legs, staining and spreading, a map of pale brown liquid and dyed-green grass and the simple but dour harmonics of funeral music, droning in the background like the roar of a tornado, sweeping her back in time.

Sara was in the center of a whirlwind.

And suddenly, it stilled. The air around her that was time stopped and let her go until she fell forwards. Her legs gave way underneath her, and she collapsed forwards, her hands coming up to break her fall simply by instinct alone, when Nick caught her and held her straight. He smelled like cologne and salt - - tears, she realized, they had soaked into his collar - - and his eyes were dark with concern as he held her shoulders for a moment in an almost-hug, brushed unselfconsciously at her dress - - and then, tentatively, released her, his arms still outstretched until he was sure she could stand alone.

"You okay?" Then he cursed softly and pressed a hand to his forehead. "Of course you're not," he said quietly. "Come on, we'll head over into the shade. This sun's brutal."

She let him take her arm and pull her away from the casket - - Grissom's casket - - and into the shade of the same trees where she and Pearson had talked about life and death not one hour before. Except we were talking right now, Sara realized, her heart skipping a beat. Right now, this is when I ran away from them and we started talking.

He let go of her elbow. "Never saw you as the fainting type." His voice sounded weak, falsely cheerful. "Guess there's a first time for everything, though."

"I didn't faint. I tripped."

"While you were standing perfectly still," Nick agreed. His smile was shaky, trembling at the corners of his mouth. "I'm not going to question your interpretation, though - - your body, your answer." He exhaled slowly, his lips pursed, as if he were smoking a cigarette. "I thought someone should tell you . . . he loved you. He did. I know it."

"Thanks," she said. "That means a lot."

It sounded better the second time around, more sincere, although she'd meant it both times. Faced with Nick's earnest sorrow and good intentions, it was hard not to mean it.

"I hate not being able to take things like this back," he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "It seems so wrong - - all we get to do is find justice after the crime, we can't ever prevent them. If we could have done anything to keep Grissom alive - -"

Watching him tell his story again, with that sweet, broken look on his face, Sara understood. The clarity that Pearson hadn't been able to supply with his metaphor of sewing ran through her, lit up Nick in a glowing, glimmering silhouette. Pearson had told her that she would be able to understand the need of anchors and how to form them, and, looking at Nick, she did. He seemed to shine, set apart from the rest of the mourners, as if someone had lit him up for her eyes. She watched in awestruck fascination as his mind seemed to be flayed open before her, spread out with character flaws and virtues plain for her to see, everything complete and meaningful, and she understood. She knew Nick better in that moment than she had in years of working with him.

She raised her eyes, over Nick's shoulder, and saw Pearson standing on the bluff, a few yards distant. He smiled at her, and nodded at Nick, not in a courteous gesture of recognizance, but significantly. He had let her see what he saw, so she would know.

Know how to choose an anchor, and how to form one.

"I'd do anything, too," she said, when he stopped. "Nick - - if something could be done, would you?"

Nick didn't ask any questions of her, just nodded and agreed, sealing his fate so effectively with one simple gesture and one simple word. "Yes."

On the bluff, Pearson said, "A promise is binding, Miss Sidle." She didn't know how she could hear him, but she knew that she wasn't mistaken. "For you as well as for him."

She got it, she didn't need it spelled out for her. If Nick chose to be responsible for holding her onto the earthly plane or whatever, she was going to be responsible for Nick, to some extent. It was a weighty responsibility, especially considering that, when she closed her eyes, she could still see Pearson's vision presented to her. Nick on his knees, his lips wet with his own blood. It played like a shutter-film, connected to her mind in blinks and lengthy sighs.

"Sara?"

"I was thinking about costs," she said, shaking her head. "And tea. I really, really want some tea. You want to go to my apartment?"

"And . . . drink tea?"

Nick said "drink tea" in the same tone of voice other people employed to say "commit mass murder".

"Yeah." She could tell that she wasn't going to get anywhere with her to-the-point attitude, Nick already looked suspicious about her sanity, and she didn't want to add any fuel to the fire. The gleam around him had dissipated, but she had seen enough while it was there to know what to do to persuade him. "I really want someone to talk to."

His look softened. "Okay, sure. You shouldn't be alone right now, anyway."

"I - - I need to say goodbye down there before we leave," she said, and descended the rise into the main crowd before he could protest or agree. She moved swiftly between them, trying to erase the pictures of their deaths with the touch of their lives, hugging when she didn't usually hug, and letting Warrick and Greg hesitantly kiss her cheek. They were all quiet. Warrick and Greg both left behind smudges of tears on her face, like ghosts of their grief.

She and Nick climbed the bluff and passed Pearson. Nick didn't appear to notice at all, but Sara stretched out her hand and let Pearson brush it with his. It was like touching a lucky charm - - rub the belly of the Buddha - - and she let herself smile at him, still not forgiving him for what he had made her see, but accepting it.

"My car or yours?"

"We'll take mine," she said, "and I'll drive you back here later and pick yours up."

He assented, nodding, shrugging, and getting in the passenger seat. She closed herself in with him, the smell of the pine air-freshener engulfing them both in its spicy scent. She turned the air-conditioning up so high that they both froze to death before they reached her apartment and thawed in the open air. She unlocked the door with hands that trembled, and told him to wait on the sofa while she made some tea. Pearson's kettle was on the counter - - another difference - - and she found the tea in her own cupboard, stocked innocuously next to the cans of tomato soup and jars of salsa.

When she came back inside, waiting for the tea to boil, Nick was looking at her pictures.

"You and your mom?" he asked, pointing to the one with the tiger-stripes.

"Yeah," she said, and told him about how she used to want to be a cat, all feline grace and dangerous claws, and he raised his eyebrows in all the right places, letting out a perfectly-convincing meow at the end of her story. She swatted at him, her hand grazing his jacket.

"Sounds like you had a good life," he said, "good childhood."

Nick followed her into the kitchen when the kettle started whistling.

She poured him a cup, and then poured one for herself, her head spinning. It was a nice switch she'd pulled on herself, making herself be Pearson in this little exchange, with Nick looking as befuddled as she'd undoubtedly looked earlier. He complimented her on the tea, and she graciously thanked him, wondering if she would have any of Pearson's other gifts, however briefly. She had the idea that a little tea-vision would help Nick come around her way much quicker than just talking.

Watching him drink, she had an idea, and again, she asked him about Pearson. She received the same story as she had before, but listened patiently, warming her hands on the cup. She looked steadily into it, and saw nothing but tea. Maybe the magic was in the brewing, not the looking - - or maybe she just didn't have any of Pearson's gifts at all. Gifts, she thought, and reached almost unconsciously towards her jacket, sliding her hand inside the pocket and touching the stiff, glossy magazine page.

He was right. Like the kettle and the tea, the things that were his did not fade away.

When Nick finished, Sara said, "I saw him today."

Nick put his cup down on his knees, looking bewildered. "Pearson? Sara, I told you, he's dead."

"I know he's dead, but he was at Grissom's funeral anyway. He told me to talk to you, and so I did."

"Are - - are you feeling okay?"

He leaned forward and pressed his hand against her forehead. She blinked at first, confused, and then realized, with a pang of something that was half-humor, half-heartache, that Nick was actually checking her for a fever. She laughed softly against his wrist. He's exactly who I need to help me. Anyone who checks for a fever before they say you're crazy is someone I definitely need on my side.

"He isn't convinced, though," Pearson said from the stuffed armchair in the corner. He was looking wistfully at Nick. "He doubts you, like you doubted me. People like you always demand proof." He shook his head. "I never should have decided to help scientists with their problems."

She glared at him.

"He can't see me," Pearson continued, "because he doesn't believe that I am really here. As I said, he needs convincing. I'll handle that for you, if you like. Have him look into his tea." Pearson's hound-dog face grew genuinely mournful. "I do not like to do this."

"Nick," she said, "do me a favor, okay?"

He nodded. "All right. What?"

"This is going to sound really, really silly - - but, look into your cup, okay? Your teacup. Just for a second, please. It's important."

Nick sighed. "Sara, I know you're upset, but - -"

"Yes, I'm upset, and yes, you are going to look into that cup. Come on, Nick. I need you to do this."

"This is crazy," he said under his breath, taking the cup back into his hands and glancing down into it.

She watched him, wondering what this would look like, happening to someone else. His eyes reflected nothing but the ring of china and the light brown tea in the center, but as he started to look back up at her and insist, again, that this was crazy, his mouth opened in an O, and he bent his head down over the cup, his eyes horrifyingly intent - - and then, terrified, repulsed. He didn't fling the cup against the wall as she had, but dropped it, instead, letting it tumble off his lap and onto the floor.

"He won't say that it was just his mind playing tricks on him," Pearson said from the chair, "because one of his virtues that I am certain of is that he knows, at least, what is in his own mind and what is not, and he trusts his mind to not turn against him in such a - - painful way. No," he said, answering her look, "I will not tell you what I showed him, though he might."

Nick, stricken, asked, "Why did you do that?"

Not how but why. Nick was more interested in her intent, and judging by the sudden vulnerability in his face, Sara knew that while Nick would believe her now, he would also hate her a little, just as she had hated Pearson.

"I didn't do that," she said, attempting to mend the gulf between them, "that was him."

"P – Pearson?"

"Yes, Mr. Stokes," Pearson said. "Me."

Nick stared into the corner, and for a second, Sara felt like she didn't even exist. This was about Nick and Pearson, for the moment, made all more powerful to Nick by the fact that he had seen Pearson dead. She had never had that memory to guard her against his appearance, and, judging by the awestruck fear in Nick's eyes, she didn't want it.

"You died," Nick said.

"Just like Mr. Grissom," Pearson agreed, "but I still walk. Miss Sidle and I were discussing the possibilities of Mr. Grissom doing the same."

"Grissom," Nick said, like a parrot.

Sara put her hand on his arm, but he barely appeared to notice. His eyes were riveted on Pearson, who was beginning to explain, once more, the technicalities of stitching through time. Nick couldn't take his eyes off Pearson the whole time, and Sara resigned herself to watching the two of them walk through a similar routine. It gave her time to evaluate Nick's reaction and compare it to her own. She had accepted Pearson's initial proposal more readily than Nick had accepted hers, but now that Pearson was walking him through it, Nick nodded in all the right places and didn't object. Sara guessed that maybe seeing a man walking around when you had seen him die made any bit of weirdness seem trivial by comparison.

"And I want you to be my anchor," Sara said when Pearson finished. "So I can go back."

Nick finally shifted his gaze away from Pearson to look at her, but his eyes darted back a second later, as if to check that the psychic was still sitting in his chair. "Just to get everything really crystal clear, you realize that all of this is totally, completely insane, right?"

"Yeah," Sara said, "I know that."

"As long as we're both on the same page," Nick said, sighing. "Okay. I'm convinced."

"I thank you for your help, Mr. Stokes," Pearson said. "I was hoping that I would get to see you again. I'm glad that you are still alive."

Coming from Pearson, that statement had a strange, polite relevance.

"Hey, man," Nick said uneasily, "I'm sorry about how I - - you know, how I acted when you came over. The meds were screwing me up, and I kind of thought that you were . . . well, crazy."

Pearson waved his hand, dismissing Nick's concerns. "I knew you," he said simply. "I knew who you were before you even said anything, and the price of walking into your home that night was an acceptable one. I don't regret it."

Nick gave Pearson a shaky smile, and turned to Sara, his dark eyes suddenly focused. It was like looking into a mirror, she realized, dizzy at the thought. That was what she had looked like at the funeral when she had first tried to persuade Nick to come back to her apartment - - that was the look that had unnerved Nick to the point of concern. It was the look they all got when they had a case to work, a problem to solve. It was the look of intent. They didn't have to be helpless, they'd been given a problem to solve and a chance to take, and it changed them. It was the "okay, what do we do now?" look.

Nick said, "Okay, what do we do now?"

Sara couldn't help but grin at her own accuracy. "We wait for Casper here to explain it to us." She felt almost giddy with anticipation, even when she saw Pearson's look of reproach.

"I am not a ghost," Pearson said stiffly.

"Sorry." Sara offered him the rest of her tea, but he waved her off. "Bad habit. You would've liked my mom, I think. She always told me that there were no ghosts, just lost souls."

"I'm also not lost. I know exactly where I am."

"When we're done talking about the politically-correct way to refer to someone who was dead and now is not as dead, can we discuss this anchor thing?" Nick, looking a little startled at his own outburst, picked up his teacup off the floor and set it on the table. "Oh, and - - uh, sorry about spilling that."

"I'm sure you had a good reason," Sara said, glancing at Pearson.

He isn't going to tell me, and I suppose he shouldn't. Nick saw something that scared him, and what someone fears is something that's part of them, and if Nick wants to tell me, and give that way, he will, but it isn't Pearson's job to do it. That's really why we both got so mad at him when he pulled the tea-trick - - not just because we were afraid of what we saw but because he took it from us without even asking. He stole our fears.

Nick's remark about the spilled tea seemed to put things back on-track even more than his barb about their name-calling.

"More tea," Pearson said, "and then more talking."

"He has a lot in common with Bilbo Baggins," Nick said softly as Pearson poured them all fresh cups. "You know, from The Hobbit."

Sara smothered a laugh in the palm of her hand. "Carefully, carefully, with the plates," she whispered sing-song, trying to picture Pearson as a hobbit and succeeding all too well.

Nick grinned at her, and, finally, they both crossed the gap and were friends again. She felt relieved. She didn't want to go through this alone - - and while Pearson was nice, he wasn't necessarily the best company. Having a cause was lightening their loads a little - - she had seen Nick's grief dissolve during his conversation with Pearson. She thought she could finally forgive Pearson for showing her a possible cost - - because he had taken the burden off them, given them both hope. As far as costs went, a few bad dreams from the frightening visions in exchange for a second chance - - the cost was acceptable.

Reasonable, even. Since when did the universe make anything work for free?

Pearson came back in and gave them all tea.

"I am unable to give you all the answers," Pearson said, "not just because I am restricted but also because I do not have all of them. Sometimes, you will have to be guided by instinct, or even a whim. I will help you both when I can, and when you find your anchor in the past, I will help then, also. For now - - Miss Sidle, will you show Mr. Stokes the magazine page in your pocket?"

She handed the page to Nick. "Scientific American," he said, pleased. "I remember this issue."

"The issue isn't particularly important, it's what Miss Sidle wrote on it."

Nick read aloud, "Rain and tears, smoke and scars. Mirror with four reflections, curved. Gun. Knife. Silk scarf. Wordless song means death." He looked at Pearson. "Predictions?"

Pearson nodded. "It's something of mine, so it doesn't disappear when she stitches."

"Call it a good luck charm," Sara said, sliding it back in her jacket. "Does Nick get anything?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Pearson fished around in the large pockets of his suit and came up with a soft package, which he handed to Nick. "Call it a good luck charm, if you like," he said, nodding at Sara, "or call it a present, if you prefer. It's both."

"It's a key," Nick said, once he was done unwrapping it. "Kind of old-fashioned. A skeleton key."

He held it up for Sara's inspection, and she saw that he was right. It looked antique, and made of a dull brass, and deeply scratched. Some of the scratches even had grains of sand embedded in them.

Nick expressed Sara's feelings with one word: "Weird. What's it unlock?"

Pearson didn't give him an answer, just told him to slide it in his pocket as Sara had hidden the magazine page. "It won't fall out," Pearson assured him when Nick expressed his concerns. "It's yours now, to keep or give away as you see fit."

"So now what?" Sara asked.

"We see if this is going to work," Pearson said, "and if it is, we continue from there."

"Okay," Nick said, "so - - how do we do that?"

"Miss Sidle, you have to have a strong connection to Mr. Grissom, and you have the strongest of all: love. Times change, people evolve, but there is always a certain strength to be found in love that is missing in other emotions. You love him, so this is possible, and he loves you, so this is easier. But - - a word of caution - - love may be blind, but don't let love blind you."

Sara frowned, unsure of what he meant, and started to ask, but he was already moving on to Nick.

"Mr. Stokes, you have to have a strong connection to Miss Sidle. Do you love her?"

"Like a sister," Nick said. "Is that enough?"

"It's more than enough, it's exemplary. You wouldn't lose her, then, would you?"

"Not without a fight." Nick looked around, as if someone might be planning to snatch Sara away from her living room at that very moment. "Why would I lose her?"

"I told Miss Sara," and Sara didn't miss the slight shift in his speech, the lessening of the formality, "that my mother had a saying about tea curing all problems. My father had another saying, and his was about God. My father was a reverend, and he used to tell his congregation that God never did anything without a cost."

"I think we both understand about costs," Sara said sharply.

"You understand enough for now," he said, "but I was warning Mr. Stokes." His reprimand complete, Pearson stood and put his hand on Nick's shoulder. "You should know that things are not arranged simply for your success. There is good, yes, but you both know that there are things that are not, and people that are not, and you will have to protect yourself against them. You should not let Miss Sara be the cost of this - - interference."

Nick looked a little dismayed at this, and Sara knew what he felt. She had the same responsibility, after all - - Pearson had as much as told her that.

"Well," Sara said, finally, "now that we all know that we love each other, I have a Scientific American covered with writing that has no basis in science, and Nick has a really big key, why don't you start telling us how to jump back in time?"

"And please don't stall us with more tea," Nick said.

"Very well." Pearson excused himself only momentarily to rinse out their cups, and when he came back into the main room, the small smile that had been growing on his face during their conversation had dissipated. "After a while, you won't need my assistance for this, but for now, you need a little guidance. Hold hands."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, Mr. Stokes. Both hands, with Miss Sara."

Looking a little sheepish, Nick and Sara clasped hands over the sofa. Sara could see a little smear of tea on Nick's upper lip, and licked her own nervously.

"Red rover, red rover, come over, come over," Nick said.

Sara smiled. "Okay, we're getting up-close-and-personal. Now, do we close our eyes and . . . what? Say some kind of incantation? Sing 'The Wheels on the Bus' song?"

"None of the above, unfortunately," Pearson said.

"Why unfortunately?" Nick asked.

"Because I am sure that such a performance would be amusing," Pearson said mildly. "No, nothing so theatrical as that. Just close your eyes." He was standing above them, one edge of his suit hanging next to Sara's cheek. The fabric smelled like homemade bread. "Imagine a clock ticking backwards." Nick's hands tightened around Sara's. "Imagine torn calendar pages being added back on. Winter turning back into autumn, autumn turning back into summer, summer turning back into spring, spring turning back into winter. Leaves that rise again to trees and become green."

She was squeezing Nick's hands so tightly between her own that she could feel the bones in his fingers. Distantly, she hoped that her ring wasn't cutting him.

"Mr. Stokes."

Nick answered, his voice sounding far away.

"Let go of Miss Sara's hands. You have to stay here, she is the one that stitches. Hold on with your mind, but let go of her hands. And for God's sake, don't let her fall. If she falls, it will be an imbalance, and she will not be in any time at all."

She felt someone kiss her forehead, and wasn't sure who. She thought it was Nick, saying goodbye, because in that moment, he released her hands and she felt herself, again, caught in the whirlwind, tumbling backwards into time, with one thin tether to where she was really supposed to be. She could feel Nick in the back of her mind, Nick in all of his honesty and pain and kindness, and she felt him making sure that she didn't fall away completely.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was Grissom.

She could feel his hands on her, then, in the small of her back and between her shoulders, and was curious as to whether she had gone back in time or simply fallen into some kind of unexpressed inner fantasy. It was his eyes that convinced her - - she had never dreamed of them being so bright with fear, and when her ears could finally focus on his voice, she knew for sure that this was real.

"Sara? Sara, you fainted."

- - - TBC - - -