Title: Shared Sorrows

Author: lildreamer

Rating: K+

Pairings: slight Grillows

Spoilers: For Warrick

Summary: A true friend is someone who shares everything with you. Successes and failures. Joys…and sorrows.

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or any of its characters. If I did, Warrick wouldn't be dead…or at least he wouldn't have died the way he did. He would've died a hero's death. Also, the song "Held" belongs to Natalie Grant.

A/N: You might wanna get the tissues out for this!

It was three days after Warrick's funeral.

After everyone else had gone home that morning after shift, he'd stayed behind as he always did, pouring over growing stacks of paperwork and unsolved cases. But it was more than his workaholic tendencies that kept him there that day. He was trying to lose himself in his work, so he wouldn't have to think about what had happened. But it wasn't working.

As he gazed at the case file he'd been trying so hard to avoid, the haunting images returned. Images he could not erase from his mind. The memories of that horrible day came back fresh and raw. There he was, lying his in his arms, bleeding, dying. And there was nothing he could do.

He closed his eyes, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. He was losing everything—everyone—he ever cared about. His world was falling apart. A tear escaped his eye and he quickly brushed it away.

He set his pen down and decided that it would be best if he packed up for the day. He couldn't concentrate on his work anymore. And if he stayed there any longer, he would probably lose his mind. He gathered his things, locked up his office, and headed out into the cool early morning air. But instead of heading home, he went someplace else. A place where he could take out all his frustrations and sorrow. The shooting range.

When he arrived, he discovered that someone had already beaten him there. He could hear the intermittent gunshots, even as he spoke to one of the gun handlers.

"She's been in there since opening," the man told him. "First one today."

Grissom glanced down at his watch. 7:00 am. He thought he was the only one who ever came in here this early. Who else could be there at this hour?

As he reached the firing range, the gunshots became clearer and more distinct. A 9mm. Most likely a standard-issue Sig-Sauer P-2232. And there was something else. Another, much softer sound.

He rounded the corner and saw someone he didn't expect to see. Her petite frame and shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair was unmistakable.

Catherine.

What was she doing here? He quietly stole into the room. If she'd heard him enter, she didn't show it. She did not stop her automaton-like shooting into the paper target. He stood there by the doorway and watched her for a moment. After all these years, he was still amazed by the skill with which she handled a gun. She was a classic example of the student surpassing the teacher.

As he stepped further into the room, he heard that soft sound again and finally realized what it was. With every shot she fired, a heartbreaking sob followed.

She was crying.

Catherine fired her fiftieth shot as she had each previous shot that morning. Aimlessly, squeezing the trigger and sending the bullet into its target.

Normally, she focused on her shooting with precise discipline. She wasn't a sharpshooter or anything, but she did strive to be the best. Even in the distracted fog of her anger, she went through all the motions of a skilled gun handler. However, this morning the tears that streamed from her eyes without warning, the anger that buzzed through her mind, combined to make the bullets speed through the air in erratic but still deadly fashion.

She didn't seem to care. The release from her muscles with each shot seemed as natural yet as uncontrolled as her tears.

She was reloading her gun and preparing to take another shot when she suddenly felt a hand touch her shoulder. She held back a sob. She knew who it was. She'd sensed his presence the moment he'd come into the room.

"Catherine." He said her name so softly. So gently. Like a caring husband to his wife.

Her restraint faltered. And for a moment, she wanted to tell him everything—how angry she was at him for letting Warrick die. How angry she was at him for choosing Sara over her. And how much she cared about him and wanted him to comfort her. But she could say nothing. Words wouldn't come.

Waves of sorrow swept through her mind, and she could no longer sight down the gun. Her eyes strayed, looking far away, filling with fresh tears. The gun drifted to one side and then sank as her resolve melted.

He put his hand on top of hers. "It's okay."

Her grip loosened and Grissom took the gun from her weak and trembling hands. He expertly reengaged the safety and carefully set it down on the table in front of her next to his own. The emotion was suddenly beyond her and she buried her face in her hands. She hated herself for crying, but she seemed powerless to stop the tears. Grissom took one look at her teary face, and promptly gathered her into his arms.

"I'm here."

Catherine stood there in Grissom's warm embrace, her face screwed up against the flood of emotions begging to come out. She'd never been held this way before. Never been loved this way before. At his simple words of comfort, she felt her restraint fall away. She broke down in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

"I miss him so much…" she choked out, burying her face into his chest.

Grissom felt his throat tighten at her words. Then, silently and unbidden, his own tears began to fall.

"I miss him, too."

This is what it means to be held

How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life

And you survive

This is what it is to be loved

And to know that the promise was

When everything fell, we'd be held

So, whaddaya think? Love it? Hate it? Reviews welcome!