A/N: Like everyone else, I'm still trying to make sense of what TPTB have done. For me, there needs to be a valid reason for Grissom to want to break up with Sara after all they've been through – because they're unhappy with the long-distance crap doesn't cut it with me.

I'm probably still in denial, whatever, but I still believe that if his marriage was on the line Grissom would move back to Vegas or they would find a compromise and he'd be home more often. WRITERS, WE DON'T HAVE TO SEE HIM FOR HIM TO BE IN VEGAS AND THEM TO BE HAPPILY MARRIED! Anyway, this is what came of my frustrations.

A/N 2: Robynne, I'm sorry for once again lying to you. As soon as I mentioned the word 'uninspired' this came to me. I won't utter the word ever again.

Some dialogue is gratefully borrowed from 6.24 Way to Go and from 13.11 Dead Air and isn't mine. Apart from Grissom's POV I'm keeping the rest canon, so you may want to keep a hankie nearby.

Married Love.

I don't know. Most people want to die in their sleep, I suppose. Never know that it's happening, like a crime scene. Surprise, you're dead.

I'd prefer to know in advance that I was going to die. I'd like to be diagnosed with cancer actually, have some time to prepare. Go back to the rain forest one more time, re-read 'Moby Dick.' Possibly enter an international chess tournament. At least have enough time to say 'goodbye' to the ones that I love.

"Shit," Grissom muttered and swiped a hand down his face.

"You don't seem overly surprised, if I may say. It's as if I confirmed your suspicions."

Grissom refocused on Docteur Fournier sitting behind the desk across from him. It was his third visit in as many weeks, and today he was getting the results of the abdominal CT scans and blood cultures the doctor had had done on him. The results weren't good, and despite the fact that he'd prepared himself it was still hard to stomach.

His shoulder lifted in reply. "I've kind of known for a while something was wrong. I mean, indigestion?" he queried with a vague wave of his hand. That was what the médecin généraliste had first diagnosed. He blew out a long breath, showing his feelings of helplessness and frustration. "I was kind of hoping it was bowel related, diverticulitis maybe, or inflammatory bowel disease."

"You've researched, I see." The doctor paused, took in a breath. "The symptoms can be misleading, this is why pancreatic cancer is so difficult to diagnose. I'm very sorry, Monsieur Grissom."

Grissom gave a faint smile. "So am I."

"You mentioned you haven't been having much of an appetite and I can't help noticing your clothes are…how do you say…rather loose on you?"

Grissom looked down at himself self-consciously and nodded.

"How much weight would you say you have lost?"

"A stone, maybe. A little more?"

"Let me see." Dr Fournier frowned as he did some quick calculations. "About ten kilos?"

"Less than that, surely," Grissom defended, looking down at himself again. His clothes were baggy, hanging off his shoulders and he'd moved his belt back one hole. His wedding ring, once tight, now turned freely around his finger. Could he have lost as much weight as that?

"Over what period of time?"

Grissom cast his mind back. Sara had mentioned he looked trimmer the last time they'd seen each other, but they'd put it down to a better diet. "Five months maybe?" he replied in a sigh. "I mean, that's when my wife first commented on it."

The doctor made a note of that on his chart.

"How does this help?" Grissom asked.

"With pancreatic cancer it's difficult to establish how advanced the cancer is. The CT scan tells us exactly where the cancer is localised but not much more. Stages one and two have better success rates."

"I see."

The doctor nodded, then gestured at Grissom's trembling hands. "Your wife's not here with you?"

Grissom shook his head. "No. She isn't."

There was a pause and when Grissom didn't elaborate the doctor lowered his gaze. "Are you thinking of going back home for treatment?"

"Home?"

"To the States."

"Oh. No. I—I've another six months left at the university here. I want to see that through."

"You might not be well enough."

"I'll take my chances." He paused, his gaze narrowing as it suddenly occurred to him what the doctor was trying to say. "Are you worried about medical insurance?"

"Oh, no," the doctor said with a wave of his hand. "La sécurité sociale can sort it out with your country. I was thinking more along the lines of emotional support. Physical support. You're going to need someone around to help you."

"I'll manage," he said, adding a little more softly, "my family situation is complicated. My mother's elderly now and I'll tell her when the time is right." His jaw set. "And I don't want Sara to know."

The doctor seemed surprised, but he didn't question Grissom on his motives.

"So, how soon do we get started?"

"As soon as possible." The doctor paused and met Grissom's gaze dead on. "You're in the best hands here. My team is at the forefront of research on this type of cancer—"

Grissom lifted his hand, cutting the doctor's words short. He was feeling hot and dizzy, and wanted out. He didn't need empty promises and fake reassurances. "Whatever it takes," he said. "Just do it."

Grissom left Doctor Fournier's office at the Hôpital de l'Hotel-Dieu stunned and numb. It was exactly 1.30 pm, local time. 4.30am in Vegas, he thought, his mind automatically making the conversion. He wouldn't tell her, he wouldn't tell Sara, not until he'd had time to wrap his head round it all. Not until he had a final prognosis or a clean bill of health.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard the constriction in his throat. He'd never felt more alone in the world than at that moment. 4.30 am, he thought, Sara would be busy at work, and sadly he knew that if he called her she wouldn't pick up. He reached inside his pocket for his phone, scrolled down to the S's and connected the call anyway.

"Hello. You've reached Sara Sidle's phone. I'm busy right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to you."

With a sigh, Grissom ended the call and shoved the cell back inside his pocket. He'd only wanted to hear the sound of her voice anyway, and he had. Besides, he'd already left a message, one she hadn't yet returned. He crossed over the Seine back to the left bank and walked along the murky-looking river, headed toward the Quartier Latin and his small fourth-floor apartment.

He paused at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, wincing at the dull pain in his lower back that the walk had exacerbated. He felt in his pockets for his painkillers and took one. Hank came to the door, scratching and yelping, and he smiled. Once inside, he closed the heavy wooden door, took a moment to return the dog's happy greeting and when the silence and loneliness of the place started to weigh down on him took the leash off the hook. Then slowly, he retraced his steps all the way back to the open air, to the bright sunshine, his faithful companion eagerly leading the way.

They walked down the Boulevard Saint-Michel to the river and crossed over the bridge toward the Ile de la Cité and Nôtre-Dame, looming tall ahead. He walked round the back of the cathedral and sat down on one of the benches in the gardens there. All around him was noise. Loud city noises of car engines and horns, but also laughter and voices speaking in foreign tongues and accents.

He focused his gaze on a group of students, judging from the way they were dressed, sat in a circle on the grass a little further from him, smoking as they told stories. One picked at his guitar, a Spanish classical tune he rather liked the sound of. Oh, to be young again, he thought, young and free to start over.

He wished Sara was with him, and then he didn't. Because if she was there by his side he wouldn't be able to hide what he was feeling. And if she knew about the cancer, she'd drop everything and catch the first plane over. He didn't want her to do that. He didn't want her to put her life on hold for him. She'd made a new life for herself in Vegas. A life with her friends and her work. A life she enjoyed despite the loneliness. And she was lonely, he knew that, as lonely as he was.

Regardless of this latest turn of event, this cancer that was growing inside him, eating away at his health and strength, he and Sara had been struggling for a while. And maybe it was time he was brave and ended the pain and suffering. He needed to set her free, cut the tugging line that kept her tied to him and from being happy. And happy, she hadn't been for quite some time. And neither had he.

He glanced down at Hank lying at his feet on the grass. "Come on, buddy," he said, pushing to his feet, "It's time to move on."

Hank lifted his head off his front paws and eyed Grissom with puzzlement. Then he got up and shook himself, and together they slowly went on their way, automatically headed home. Home, he thought with a scoff, and shook his head.

Out of the blue, he took a left turn down concrete steps leading to the river bank. He walked a hundred metres or so and found a new bench, a quiet one where no one would overhear him. A couple of river boats coming from opposite directions sailed past him, the voices of their respective guides floating up to him.

He checked his watch; 5pm. God, how time soon went. Her shift would be over now. He waited until the bateaux-mouches were well away to take his phone out. Sara's birthday was coming up in a few weeks and he'd promised her he'd be there. As soon as she saw him she would know something was wrong, and he couldn't let that happen.

"Hello?"

He closed his eyes at the stab of pain in his chest hearing the sound of her voice caused. Her greeting had been weary and wary, only serving to validate his intention.

"You're hard to get a hold of," he said, regretting the words and reproach as soon as they'd passed his lips.

"Yeah, I'm sorry," she added after a beat, and he hated that she was always the one apologising. "How are you?"

He gave a quiet scoff at her question. If only she knew, he thought. He swallowed and wiped his fingers over his eyes, hoping he could keep it together long enough to say what he had to say. Oh, how he longed to hold her in his arms, and have those arms hold him back. He looked at the wedding band on his finger. Married love is selfless love, right?

He didn't need to fake the sombre tone in his voice as he spoke, but the detachment he did. "Is this a good time?"