Category : Tragedy/Romance

Pairing : GSR

Rating : Teen

Disclaimer : 'CSI' and all its characters belong to Anthony Zuiker, CBS and Alliance Atlantis. No copyright infringement is intended.

Spoilers : None, except for the canon GSR.

WARNING: Character Death story.

A/N: This fic isn't a result of the Finale, as I said, there's no spoiler in it. I actually wrote it in French back in March, when the rumors about Sara's safety started to become really strong. Well, I depressed a little back then, and I needed to write something about a grieving Grissom. I had totally forgotten about it until earlier this week. I translated it, and here it is :) I deeply thank Lisa for being an amazing person and a wonderful beta.

I warned you, this is a CD story, and a really weird story. I hope you enjoy it anyway :)) Comments are love ;)


Fleeting Moments.


With an automatic, and a little nervous, gesture, she reached up and tucked a wet lock of hair behind her ear.

But the smile brightening her face was anything but nervous, neither was the gleam in her brown eyes, as she stared at the strong falling rain. The downpour had been sudden and unexpected, but nothing new for the residents of San Francisco.

"It shouldn't last long, those summer rains are usually very short," she said, before her eyes slid from the street to his face.

He didn't say anything then; he just kept staring at her. Another expression of hers –one of those he had learnt to know and deeply enjoy during the two weeks seminar- showed on her face, her smile became questioning.

"What?" she finally asked, a small nervous chuckle escaping her throat.

Her name is Sara Sidle.

She's young, beautiful, smart.

And dead.

But of course, she doesn't know that, yet. Neither does he. They have eleven years left from this specific moment, and really, he wishes he had lived these years as he should have. As she deserved.

He knows he's not really beneath this porch with her, as the rain falls thick and fast in front of them. All of this is playing in his mourning mind. A flash of memories, a button he just pushed in his brain. It's another day, another time. But who cares?

Because right now, he's back eleven years earlier, leaning against this door, watching the quizzical grimace displayed so adorably all over her face. And just like he did eleven years ago, he wants her.

He wants to come a little closer. To slip his hands around her waist, to feel under his palms her clothes engorged with water, and to gently tighten his grip until the icy liquid trickles between his fingers.

Her skin has become paler, and she shivers softly, he can see it. He wants to taste her lips, darkened by the cold.

Her smile isn't quizzical anymore. She looks calm, as she watches him with soothing and slightly sad eyes. He realizes then that her lips are turning blue. He takes off his jacket.

"You're cold." He says softly, draping his jacket around her shoulders.

"Yes, I am cold." She simply answered, and a cloud of steam forms in the air with every word escaping her mouth. "Your jacket isn't useful anymore."

And he wishes so deeply that he had kissed her that night, in the rain. He knows it's too late, now, and yet, he has to try. The hands he had put on her shoulders slowly slide inside the jacket. He wants to feel the water flowing under his hands.

But what he feels on his palms is nothing but cold.

The liquid is warm and thick, and it creates a viscous path through his fingers. Panic immediately overtakes him, and he lowers his eyes towards the wound, applying as much pressure on it as he can, trying to stop the flow. His vision becomes blurry, and all he can see is red. So, so much red.

"I've never seen you cry before, Griss." She says with a gentle voice. When he feels her cold fingers slipping on his wet cheeks, he raises his head, staring at her milky skin, her bluish lips.

"I don't remember how it feels not to cry anymore…" he murmurs, and she smiles, always so tenderly.


A burst of laughter escaped her, before the sound changed, turning into something that mostly sounded like a purr. He loved that sound more than anything else.

Straddling his stomach, she hid her face in the crook of his neck, before she started to nibble his ear, making him moan an indistinct sound. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands sliding over the thin fabric of her top, enjoying the shivers along her skin, as it followed the trail of his fingers.

The sheet was completely covering their bodies, filtering the invading light, keeping them inside a comfortable bubble of warmth.

The temptation to make this snuggling session evolve into something a lot more physical and totally enjoyable was strong, but right now, being close to each other was enough.
Proving it so, she ended up simply nesting her head under his chin, letting out a loud and content sigh. And all he did then was to
feel her.

The weight and length of her body against his…the way her legs were wrapped around him…her breath on his neck…her heartbeats against his chest…

And then nothing.

He still can feel everything else, but her heart's stopped.

And he knows that, beneath his own chest, his heart has broken forever. Or maybe it's more fully there. And it feels like whetted blades were dug into it, with every passing second. Making him suffer a sharp and yet diffuse pain…poignant and endless…again…and again…

He feels her weight coming off, and he opens his eyes, fearing that she's already gone.

But she's still…there.

The light diffusing through the sheet is too weak for him to be able to see the details of her face or body, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't need any light. He knows every curve of her body, the tiniest beauty spot on her skin…he knows her by heart.

And speaking of hearts…

"Your heart doesn't beat anymore…" he murmurs.

She smiles, always so gently and so sadly, sliding her right hand over his chest: "Yours still does."

Then, her hand rises again, a gesture he saw her do a thousand times, something that's always seemed so futile, so casual.

She pushes this eternally wild strand behind her ear.

But this time, when her fingers brush her cheeks, they leave a dark trail on it.

Too dark to be chalk.

And then, she notices the liquid spread all over her fingers, and she lowers her eyes towards her own chest. The dark spot on her top is growing fast now. Her eyes fall on Grissom's shirt then, which is also stained, and she bites her lip.

"Sorry about that…" she apologizes, and again, he can't see a thing anymore, his vision blurs.

She brings her face close to his, and softly, she blows on his cheek, turning a tear away from its initial path.

"You never cried then, Gil…" she breathes.

And he closes his eyes.

"It was because I had never lost you." He murmurs.

He feels a cold brush on his cheek. Her kiss. And then, she whispers in his ear:

"I'm never gone too far…"


The work-top looked more like a battlefield than a work top.

She had spread and scattered everything. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs, milk, recipes books…

She was the closest to the counter, her face tensed with intense concentration, her mouth pursed in an exasperated way. He came to stand behind her, pining himself against her back, before he wrapped his arms around her waist.

He so enjoyed the muttering sounds she was making when she tried to cook something, and above all, he loved to come in just in time for him to save the day, helping her…in his own way.

"Put this spoon down, and use your hands, Sara…" he said, obviously amused by the situation.

She mumbles something about the bad quality of the flour, and about the fact that if a damn recipe was telling her to use a damn spoon, she would use a damn spoon.

So then, fighting her reluctance, he took the utensil from her hands, interlacing their fingers. And before she could protest, he had dug their four hands in the dough.

She let out an exclamation of sincere surprise when she discovered the sensation, and the sound vibrated through his whole body.

"'There aresome things that cannot be taught by books…'" he murmurs in her ear, and he felt the shiver running through her skin. "Sara Sidle." He added, naming the author of his quote.

And then, he landed a kiss on her neck, breathing her scent deeply as their fingers moved together in the thick and cold substance. Slowly. Sensually.

He remembered vividly how this cooking session had ended up. The cookie batter had been quickly forgotten (the dough having found some utility, though).

But no drifting this time.

All he wants to do is stay like this forever. Feel her between his arms. Breathe her unique perfume. Slip his fingers through hers in the marrowy texture of the dough.

And love her. Simply love her.

"When I was ten, I made a cake with my mom," she begins, calmly. "Nothing great, you'd say; but for me, it was. My dad had said it was time for her to teach me something else than just bury myself in books. It was just after he'd beaten her."

He lays his cheek against hers, and quietly watches as their hands work the dough.

"I remember it because my mom's nose was bleeding. It was surely broken. Some drops fell into the mixing bowl, but she didn't dare to say anything to my dad. She forbade me to eat even the tiniest crumb of the cake."

All of sudden, a drop of blood falls on the dough, and their hands go still: in silence, they watch as the red liquid slowly diffuses itself on the white substance. A new drop quickly joins the first one.

But soon, he feels a liquid that couldn't be more different slid along his nose. The salty drop slowly makes its way; coming to an end, it falls in the mixing bowl, and meets the mixture, diluting the blood. And then, another tear slides down, rolls, falls and blends. Then another one. And another one. And another one…

"My dad never cried over my mom's blood…" she says, so softly, so peacefully.

And he closes his eyes, breathing deeply, painfully. Inhaling her scent, as she already starts to fade away.

"I will always cry over your blood, Sara."