A/N: This is just a short little oneshot piece with a bit of GSR fluff and angst.

God there was so much blood… too much blood. Why was there so much blood? Why must there always be so much blood? Was this all her blood…? No… no, it couldn't be her blood, because… because it was simply too much blood

He looked through the shattered glass window at the white linoleum floor, now littered with the torn remains of a CSI jacket and power-blue t-shirt. He remembered making her bring the jacket; the small jacket wasn't really a jacket at all, it was more of a windbreaker, but he didn't want her to catch cold that night. Along with it were a few different-sized bronze buttons and he only moaned in despair as he was left to imagine what they must've gone to.

There was a void where her body had laid, where it had laid cold, lonely and afraid; shaking, shuddering, whimpering in fright. Why hadn't he been there, why had he left her alone?

He felt a sudden breeze that sent a shiver down his spine and made his body shake with the violent urge to shudder. A faint scent filled his nostrils. It was faint, but it was there. She was there. Faintly, she was there. Faintly…

He woke up with a start, feeling a trail of sweat above his brow, slowly trailing down his face to stain the bed sheets once again. As he tried to regain his breath as well as his bearings he gingerly tilted his head to the side just to make sure that she was still there. And she was. There she laid, completely undisturbed between the sheets, a mottle of brown hair just visible under the neck of the sheets.

He slowly snaked his hand toward her, as though if he touched her she would break like a piece of glass. Finally bringing his hand to a stop, just to hover above her head, he stopped, just glancing down at her for a second. Gradually he set his hand down on top of her head and gently rubbed, feeling some sort of relief swarm over him. It wasn't another dream. She was real, and she was still here.

Feeling a stubborn and increasing rubbing at the back of her head, Sara cracked an eye open and rolled over in order to see what exactly it was. Her eyes adjusting to the light, she saw the familiar form of Grissom sitting up once again in bed, obviously troubled by less than pleasant thoughts. She knew he had been having some bad nights… she had heard him wake up the previous night and go to the bathroom to try and compose himself. When he came back she had asked him if he was okay, and he falsely assured her that he was, wrapped his arms tightly- maybe a bit painfully- around her shoulders, kissed the top of her head and told her to go to sleep.

She didn't want to ask him about his dreams for fear of upsetting him and also bringing up the details once again of that grisly day. She didn't want to admit it but it was still haunting to her to even think about, and every night before she went to bed she would pray. She would pray and thank God that Adam had not killed her.

Sitting up in a more upright position, Sara looked over at his face tenderly, noting the sweat above his lips and eyebrows. "Hey," she softly whispered, tentatively reaching a hand out to rub her thumb against his cheek. "Was it another nightmare?"

He tried to sound like that wasn't the truth. "I'm a grown man Sara, I don't have nightmares," Grissom mumbled in defiance, settling back against the headboard. That's right, he thought, they weren't nightmares, they were worse than nightmares. They were those thoughts of losing her. Of losing…

"I could say the same for myself," Sara retorted, pulling her back out of her face. Reaching over onto the nightstand beside her she grabbed a rubber band and tied it up behind her head, slowly inching closer to Grissom's body. "But how many nights have you woken up to me whispering things in my sleep?"

"Sara, I…" Grissom whispered. He didn't know what to say. He was obviously terrified of losing her; that was why he was having these dreams. These… awful, terrible, horrific dreams, visions of what could have been. He could still see everything so clearly, and he couldn't get those images out of his mind. He wanted to protect her… but he couldn't protect her in his dreams.

"Hey," she whispered again, seeing him tense after her question. Finally moving so that she was leaning against his body, she slowly rested both hands on either sides of his face. "Look at me," she whispered, making sure he made eye contact with her. It was scarce but it was something. "I'm here, okay?" she whispered, "You haven't lost me."

"But Sara, what…" Grissom started, getting lost in her eyes, "I could've…don't you see that—"

"I do," Sara truthfully replied, "I do, and I think about it every minute of everyday," she whispered, "But I'm here, and I'm breathing… and I know that you're here. That's what gets me through this."

"Oh honey…" he whispered. Without thinking too much of it he pulled her so that her head was resting just under his heart and so he could hold her more securely, something he had become quite fond of doing. "Why are you so strong, Sara…?" he whispered, staring ahead at the bedroom wall, "I don't want to feel this anymore, Sara… I want to feel you, not… not that… not that fear…" he whispered, "I want to feel you… I don't want to see through you anymore, I don't want to see my nightmares… I want to see you."

Sara moved his hand so that it was resting just above her heart. "Do you feel that?"

He gazed down upon her and slowly entwined her hand with his. "Yes," he whispered, feeling her steady heartbeat underneath his palm.

"Do you see my face?" Sara quietly asked, looking directly into his eyes for some sort of indication that she was getting through to him.

"Yes," he whispered in reply.

Taking his hand in hers, she brushed his fingertips against her face, letting him feel her cheeks, and then her lips. Slowly they moved down to brush against her neck where they lingered for some moments.

"You could've gotten hurt," he whispered.

"But I'm not," Sara said in reply, bringing movement back to his hand again. Slowly his hands traced across her small frame, traveling down her neck to her collarbones, over her breasts to her stomach, down her thighs to her calves and ankles. "Do you feel me?" she whispered.

"Yes," Grissom whispered. He snaked one his hands underneath her gray tank top as if in disbelief that she was actually here and a warm glow returned to his face as he felt her skin underneath his fingertips. Her warm, beautiful skin.

"What do you feel now?" she whispered, gazing into his eyes.

"I feel you," Grissom whispered.

That night they fell asleep with their bodies entwined with each other, his arms linked protectively around her waist, her head resting just under his chin.

"So what do you feel now?" came her voice from behind him. He felt her arms wrap themselves around his waist and a smile tickled the corners of his lips as her head came to rest against his shoulder.

With a contented sigh he looked at the strewn-around room, the broken glass, the linoleum floor. There was no blood. "I feel you," he whispered.

And the nightmares vanished, because Gil Grissom could finally feel her.

The End