Hi, again. I'm back. This is the first fanfic I wrote, not only for CSI, but EVER. It was a situation in which I had a lot of time to kill. A whole lot of time. It was about mid-March. I was away from home, I had my laptop, and I was checking around to see when certain TV shows were coming back after the writers' strike. As I wandered around the CSI Web page, I stumbled on the fan fiction. Since I'm a published novelist, my brother-in-law challenged me to write one. It started as a lark and then got serious. So … here it is. I'll be posting in much larger chunks than I did with Tragedy Squared. This is a longer story.

Oh, yeah, the disclaimers. I own nothing. Well, that's not true. I own my car. My house. My dog and cat … uh, no, actually, my dog and cat own me.

The M rating is for both adult situations and violence.

I look forward to hearing from you.

xxxxxxx

THE EDGE OF FOREVER

Chapter 1.

"Tell me again how you won the twenty-five hundred dollars, Jim," Grissom said, one eyebrow arched in his typical expression of skepticism. He was glad for the chance to tease his friend. He had been wary of serious conversation all night.

"The story's not going to change, Gil. I bought a newspaper, gave the clerk a five, and the half dollar was in the change," Brass said, stopping to let the waiter collect empty plates from Grissom, Catherine and, finally, from him. "I hate change, so I dropped the half-dollar in the big slot on my way out the door. And it hit."

"You know people stand in front of those things and pull the handles all night and get zip," Catherine said. "You take one pull and walk away a big winner."

"Clean living," Brass said with a smile.

Grissom wiped his mouth with his napkin and placed the cloth on the table.

"Nice of you to share the windfall with your friends," he said. "I needed a break from Frank's diner and Chinese takeout."

Brass had dropped by the crime lab on Thursday to tell Grissom about his unexpected winnings and, on a whim, invited Grissom and Catherine to dinner on Saturday night at the Bellagio to celebrate.

"You want to blow it all on one meal?" Catherine had said.

"Why not?" Brass said. "It's found money."

The dinner would cost considerably less than 2,500, but it gave Brass the opening he wanted – and in Catherine the support he needed – to get Grissom to open up a little about Sara. The conversation had been light as they ate, but as the waiter brought coffee, Brass knew it was time to take his best shot.

"You hear from Sara recently?" he said, keeping his eyes on his cup as he stirred, even though he had added neither cream nor sugar.

Grissom sighed heavily. "Why did I know this was coming?"

Brass looked across the table with his best expression of innocence. "Hey, just a couple of friends talking," he said.

"The answer's no," Grissom said. His tone was brusque, but his expression was profoundly sad. It spoke volumes.

"No you haven't heard, or no you don't want to talk about it?"

"Both."

Catherine reached out a hand and put it lightly on Grissom's. He started to take it away, but she held on. "You have to talk to somebody at some point, Gil. If Sara taught you anything, she taught you how self-destructive it is to keep pain in a box. The lid will blow off eventually, and when it does, it will take you apart."

Grissom took a sip of his coffee. He put the cup down. He picked up an unused dinner knife and began drawing railroad tracks in the padded tablecloth. He worked slowly, oblivious to his friends, who looked on in curiosity. Two long, parallel lines, lots of short crosshatches. Grissom stopped and watched as the padding began returning to its original plane, gradually obliterating his artwork.

"See? Nothing lasts," he said softly. "If you expect it to, you only get hurt."

Catherine glanced at Brass and started to say something to Grissom when the waiter arrived to ask if anyone in the party would like anything more. Brass and Catherine said no. Grissom watched in silence as his railroad tracks continued to shallow out.

When the waiter left with Brass's credit card, Catherine turned back to Grissom.

"How long has it been since you and Sara talked?"

Grissom shook his head. "Not since the week after she left. She said she would call again when she was ready."

"That's been four months, Gil," Catherine said. "You haven't tried calling her in all that time?"

"She changed her number. She didn't want to give me the new one. I have no idea where she is now. I hope she's safe and well. And happy, finally."

Brass cleared his throat. "If you want to find her, I can do it," he said. "Being a cop I have some resources."

Grissom shook his head. "She has to do this her way," he said.

"And what if another four months goes by? And another? And …" Grissom put up a hand and halted Catherine in mid-sentence.

"Stop it!" Grissom's voice was low but adamant. He locked eyes with her. "Can't you understand how talking about it makes it worse? I don't have to wait for the lid to blow off the box, Catherine. This has already ripped me to shreds. Answering the questions of well-intentioned friends only forces me to describe the loss, the fear, all over again. I don't want to talk about Sara. Why can't you respect that?"

He stood.

"Thanks for dinner, Jim. I'll see you both at work Monday."

As he watched Grissom walk away, Brass muttered, "Well, I thought that went well."

When he got home, Grissom sat in his driveway for 10 minutes, his stomach churning at the prospect of walking, once again, into an empty house. He thought about getting the dog, checking into a cheap motel off The Strip somewhere and drinking himself into oblivion on cheap vodka.

But when he woke up, he'd have a hangover, and Sara would still be gone. There didn't seem to be much point.

So he put on a cheerful demeanor for Hank, clipped on his leash and went for a walk.

When he dropped into bed an hour later, he flung an arm over the empty side of the mattress and let his loneliness drive him to sleep.

Sunday morning. Grissom's habit was to be up 5 a.m. and drink a pot of coffee while he read the Las Vegas Sun and the New York Times. Then, about 12 hours later, he would catch a nap before the start of his shift. But this Sunday morning he came wide awake at 3:18, after only four hours' sleep.

He lay on his back with his eyes closed taking stock of himself. The t-shirt he'd gone to sleep in was plastered to his skin, soaked with sweat. He had the deep twinge in his left calf of a muscle cramp about to bite. His mouth tasted like the felt of a blackjack table. But the nausea and excruciating pain of a migraine trumped everything else.

He got out of bed gingerly and stripped off the wet shirt. The air circulated by his ceiling fan cooled his skin but did nothing for his other symptoms.

Grissom turned on the bathroom lights and switched them off as quickly. The glare torqued up the headache in an instant. Using the ambient light coming through the bathroom window, he identified his bottle of Imitrex and dry-swallowed the pill. He made his way back to bed and eased himself down, not even bothering with the covers.

Is there any way I could be more miserable? If Sara had just ended it, told me it was a mistake of the moment when she accepted my proposal, I could have moved on. This is like lingering death.

Grissom didn't realize he'd fallen asleep again until he awoke with the sun in his eyes and shivering. Lying in nothing but boxers under a ceiling fan will do that. At least Imitrex seemed to have damped down the migraine.

He got out of bed, ran a hot shower and stepped into it, imagining Sara stepping in behind him, putting her arms around his waist and letting her hand drop, ever so slowly, teasing him until he turned around and gave her what she wanted. It was one of their games. One of their best games, in fact. Would he ever be able to shower again without that memory?

Grissom dressed in blue jeans and a Chicago Cubs t-shirt, started a full pot of coffee and took Hank for a walk in the cool of a desert morning. When they arrived back at the apartment, he picked up the papers.

"We'll go to the dog park later, boy, and you can run yourself out of energy," Grissom said. He poured his coffee and took his newspapers outside onto the balcony. It was too nice a day to be indoors. Hank settled in at his feet.

Two hours later, the dog began to whine and tremble. He lifted his square head toward the front door. Grissom spoke his name.

The dog turned his head and looked at Grissom, but just as quickly looked back at the front door. Grissom listened, trying to penetrate the sounds of birds and light traffic. He heard nothing. He stroked the dog's head and went back to the New York Times Sunday crossword.

Eventually, Hank put his head down, but he continued to tremble.

Grissom glanced at him a few times, growing concerned for the dog.

Then the doorbell rang.

Shit! If you're collecting for something, go away. If you're selling something, go away. Whoever you are, just go away.

Without checking the peephole, Grissom opened the door. The rush of adrenaline made him light-headed.

"Sara!" Grissom's tone was nearly flat. No hint of welcome. And Sara noticed. He saw the uncertainty in her eyes. Grissom hadn't intended to be cool; he had dreamed of this day, after all. But now his mind filled with instant doubt. Maybe she'd come to collect the rest of her things, to tell him she was leaving for good.

"Bad time?" she said.

"No," Grissom said. "You want to come in?"

Hank wasn't as circumspect as his master. The big boxer was all over Sara with excitement, and she laughed as she rubbed him. "It's good to see you, too, boy."

"Can I get you something? There's fresh coffee." Grissom asked when Sara was fully inside.

"Water would be fine," she said.

Grissom went to the kitchen. When he came back, Sara had settled into a chair and was scratching Hank's head and throat. Grissom loosened the cap and handed the bottle to Sara. He got his coffee and perched on the arm of a chair across from her.

They looked at one another in silence and uncertainty for a few moments. Grissom wasn't quite sure what to ask first. Was she back for good? Was she back to say goodbye? He didn't think he was ready to hear either of those answers. He decided on something less final.

"So how are you doing?" he said. "Have you found what you were looking for?"

Sara sipped the water. "Most of it. I made peace with my mother. It was hard for both of us. We sparred and danced around things for nearly a month before we found any common ground. But in the end, we were both able to say, 'I love you,' and mean it."

Grisson couldn't stop the thought: That's more than you and I have been able to do.

But he smiled, gratified that Sara found that much resolution.

"I'm happy for you," he said. "Really, I am. And for your mother." He paused. What came next came unbidden. "I've missed you."

He felt a familiar ache in his chest.

Sara stood and walked to a window, her back toward Grissom.

"You know," she said, "while I was in San Francisco, I started seeing someone."

Grissom's smile faded. His heart began to pound. Don't tell me this, Sara. Please.

"I didn't plan it," Sara said. "It was a chance meeting and an opportunity, and I decided to try it. After a few weeks, I could feel my whole attitude and outlook changing. I felt good about the world. I wanted to get out of bed in the morning to see what the day would bring. I don't think I've ever felt that way before."

As Grissom listened, he could feel his face mirroring his emotional turmoil. He had known it might come to this. But the reality was unbearable.

Then Sara drove a stake through his heart.

"For the first time in my life," she said, "I know what it's like to be happy."

Grissom wasn't sure he could speak. It took a moment for him to choke out the question.

"Do you love him?" His voice wasn't much more than a whisper.

Sara turned. She seemed stunned by the expression on Grissom's face. The surprise was replaced quickly by comprehension.

"It's not a him," she said. "It's a her."

Now Grissom was completely confused.

"Dr. Elaine Samuels is my therapist, Gil. She tends to matters of my head, not my heart. When I said I was seeing someone, I meant I was seeing a therapist." She paused for a moment and smiled. "I guess you thought …"

Grissom could offer only a small shrug of acknowledgment.

She walked to him and knelt in front of him. She took his hands in hers.

"You really aren't getting this, are you?" Sara said gently. "You're the only man I've ever loved. You're the only man I can ever imagine loving. It's as true today as it was the first time I told you, four months ago. You're the key to my happiness, Gil. Dr. Samuels helped me understand I would never be complete without you. You are more important than all the ghosts from my past because you are my future. Having a professional validate that for me made me very, very happy."

Grissom was riding an emotional roller coaster. If Sara meant this, why hadn't she been more emotional when he opened his front door to her? Then she explained.

"But we hadn't talked in four months. I didn't know how you were feeling, whether you still loved me or whether you'd moved on. For all I knew you'd come to hate me. That's why I didn't call first to let you know I was back in Las Vegas. I was afraid you might not care any more. I was afraid you'd tell me to stay away. I spent half an hour outside, getting up the nerve to ring the bell."

That explains Hank's behavior. He knew Sara was out there.

"When you opened the door," she said, "you didn't seem particularly happy to see me. I was pretty sure I had stepped into my worst nightmare. I wanted to turn and run."

"You had nothing to worry about," Grissom said, his equilibrium beginning to return. "If you had tried to run, I'd have tackled you and carried you back here. I was restrained at the door because I was worried you might have come back to tell me it was over. You saw indifference, but that's a 180 from what I was feeling."

He stood and drew her up to him. "Let me show you what I mean," he said.

He caressed her hair and her face. He kissed her neck lightly, and she moaned with pleasure. His lips touched hers, lightly, and then pulled away. When she tried to kiss him, he kissed her lightly, again, and pulled away, again. He was teasing her, and it was driving her crazy. So she took control. She grabbed him and pulled his body tight against her own, and they kissed as if they never wanted the moment to end.

He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the bedroom. Hank followed and the door closed. It opened again a moment later, and Hank reemerged.

Sara and Grissom wouldn't reappear for another three hours.

They didn't know it then, but their joy would last only three days.

xxxxxxx

Okay, I wrote. Now you write. Thanks.