As Nelly so succinctly put it – "Why do all good things come to an end?"

A decade long obsession of will they, won't they, did they, are they, when will they, when did they and why aren't they. And now they're done.

They will be missed.

They're not mine, but if they were … I would've ended it exactly the way it did. Although I definitely wouldn't have cut to the stupid monkey right in the middle of the long awaited kiss.

I mean really…

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THE LAST TIME

There was no cake in the break room.

Catherine's last (and possibly greatest) gift to him, was putting an end to any ideas that the rest of the team may have had about the Grissom Goodbye Get-together. She was absolutely emphatic – there would be no cake, no gifts, no heartfelt speeches and most importantly of all - no teary-eyed goodbyes.

Grissom didn't want them, he wouldn't know how to deal with them and besides, so soon after Warrick's death, emotions were still too raw to have a party in the office. Say goodbye if you must, but do it quickly and do it quietly and don't make a big deal about it.

Thus sayeth the new Shift Supervisor, and from now on her word is law.

It was testament to Catherine's leadership skills that even Hodges had managed to heroically contain his bereavement. Well, for the most part anyway.

And so, when he closed the doors of the Las Vegas Crime Lab behind him for the last time, Grissom had gotten what he'd always hoped for, but never dared to believe he would actually get - the chance to go gently into that good night.

As he stood blinking in the brilliant sunshine, he took a deep breath and then allowed it to escape from him in one slow, steady rush. For the last few days, an odd feeling had troubled him whenever he brushed his teeth or fed Hank or lay alone in bed. He'd been trying to put a name to the sensation all week, and now finally, he thought he had it.

Freedom. It was the feeling of freedom.

For the first time in decades he was free of murder and death and lies and crime scenes and blood and responsibilities and strange hours and double shifts and office politics and paperwork.

And Hodges. Don't forget about Hodges.

With a little smile, he headed to his car. He'd had a choice to make, and he'd made it. Now he was free to do what he wanted, when he wanted and where he wanted. And there wouldn't be any ringing phones or blaring beepers to stop him.

After years, he was once again the master of his own destiny. And right now, the master had a great many things to do.

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He'd forgotten how much fun jungles could be. There wasn't a rock or a leaf or a blade of grass that didn't house some sort of exotic multi-legged creature, and in his backpack he already had a jar filled with the biggest (and he ardently hoped speediest) cockroaches even he had ever seen.

In fact, there was so much to see, that he'd almost forgotten to be nervous. Almost.

His last few days in Vegas were spent meticulously executing and ticking off the items on the list he'd been making since the day he escap…uh…left… Heather's house.

One: Quit job. Tick.

Two: Buy airplane ticket. Tick.

Three: Get jungle gear, backpack, water bottle etc. Tick.

Four: Ask Catherine to look after Hank. With Lindsey pampering him to within an inch of his life, he wouldn't even miss home. Tick.

Five: Ask Greg to water the plants, as he'd be much less likely to snoop around the house than Catherine. Tick.

He'd been so busy, there hadn't been time to worry about anything except getting to the ship and finding out (from a rather old, crusty marine-biologist) where exactly she was staying. And even now, as he got closer to his final destination, he made a point of occupying himself with the insects and plants that surrounded him.

Anything that would prevent his traitorous brain from reminding him of all the reasons why she should send him to hell.

He hadn't even told her he was coming. As a wise man once said: it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. So for once he'd simply closed his eyes and leapt into the infinite abyss.

So he kept on walking, rounded a bend in the trail, and there she was. She had her back to him and was so intent on her photography, that she didn't even know he was there.

Sara.

Strange how the scene before him now so closely mirrored one from back then.

Only, back then he hadbeen the one with a camera in his hand, taking photos of the dummies that Nick was tossing off some hotel's roof. Back then he didn't even have to turn around to know who was standing behind him.

Back then her soft, curly hair had framed the huge grin on her face so perfectly that it had sent a huge pang of…something… straight to his gut.

Love.

That's what the pang had been. That twinge he had felt every time he was around her had been love. And for the better part of a decade he had tried desperately to ignore it and deny it and resist it, unable to believe that someone like Sara could really choose him. He had treated her terribly – toyed with her, rejected her and finally, he'd let her go.

He had gone to his office, read her letter and he'd simply let her go. And later, when she came back, he did it to her again.

He, Doctor Gilbert Grissom, PhD and CSI Level 1, had been a monumental idiot.

But he, Gil Grissom, unemployed entomologist, had also always been a great believer in second chances.

Or third, or fourth ones. Just ask the not-always-so-angelic-team-back-in-Vegas.

He knew the moment Sara became aware of his presence. As she turned to face him, he was momentarily frozen and – as usual - completely incapable of stringing a coherent syllable together.

He noted rather absently that it was infinitely comforting to find that there were some things that would never change.

It was only when she took a tentative step towards him that his brain and body regained their ability to function. Unceremoniously, he dumped the backpack with its precious cargo of cockroaches to the ground and closed the gap between them.

Sara's body was trembling, but her lips were soft and firm on his and the way she clutched at his neck as he kissed her, said more than any words between them ever could have. As he crushed her body to his, Grissom was overcome with gratitude to whatever gods had guided him back into Sara's arms.

He had had a decision to make. And he had unquestionably made the right one.

At last - he was free.

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A/N: And that's all she wrote.

I hereby officially jump the shark and send a desperate plea out into the universe – if anyone out there knows of another ship that can compare to the USS GSR, let me know.

I'm floundering in a stormy sea and both my lifeboats have absconded to Puerto Rico…

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