Title: SOS
Author: wobbear
Rating: General/K
Pairing: Grissom/Sara
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.
Author's note: This is the first chapter of a short WIP. It has not had the benefit of a beta … why? Because it's been ages since I last posted and I'm an idiot. That pretty much sums it up.

Summary: Sara left. She is in the San Francisco area. What happens? GSR

Chapter 1

It's a prosaic sight. An every day occurrence.

Gil comes out of the bathroom after a shower, body dried and boxer-clad, hair still damp, curls combed. Selects a shirt from the closet, pulls it on and does the buttons from the top down. Or one button, up, for a polo shirt. Chooses the pants of the day — or picks them up from the chair if he's recycling yesterday's — and steps into them, left leg first, always the left. Tucks the shirt in, left side, back and right side, in that order, before doing up the pants at the waist. Zip up. Next the belt, brown or black depending on the day's ensemble. He does up the belt, testing to see if he's lost enough weight to move to the tighter hole. Then sits on the blue chair to pull on socks, toe into shoes. Standing up, he clips phone onto belt, drops keys into the right front pocket, slips slim wallet into the left one. After that, a general check that all is in order. Then last, but definitely not least, he carefully places a neatly pressed and folded square of cotton in the left hip pocket. And buttons the pocket closed, if there's a button.

And to complete the picture, Sara is lying on their bed, sipping coffee, idly watching Gil prepare for his day … night … whatever.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Such a familiar scene, so clear in her mind's eye.

Sara sighed.

He was over 500 miles away.

She missed him.

Oh, she missed him so.

Every minute, every hour.

Every second.

Even his mundane little routines, which at first she had scoffed about. Their consistency, regularity. He had simply smiled at her with tolerant eyes, and continued on steadily, secure in the knowledge of what worked for him.

She always showered and dressed first, which freed her to watch the floor show, as she privately called it. Not that she was completely ready herself; she always finished up just before she left.

She would lie there relaxing, as he methodically got organized for work. He never criticized later, when he was ready to leave, as she rushed about the house looking for one shoe, her pager, her good hairbrush. He would just offer a quiet suggestion like, "Did you check the coffee table?" then stand back as the Sara whirlwind swirled through the place.

After her frantic searching was over, they would meet at the door to the garage, and join hands, hug for a moment or simply smile at each other — quietly reveling in the fact they were there together. Then Gil would open the door and stand back, gesturing with his hand for Sara to go first. And so they'd move on, getting on with their day, their life.

After one particularly hectic pre-work flurry of hers, Sara was reflecting as he drove them to the lab. When they were stopped at a traffic light she wiggled around in the passenger's seat to face Gil and asked, "D'you miss your peaceful life?

He shook his head, a glimmer of a grin hovering on his lips.

"C'mon, you can tell me. Just a tiny bit?"

"No. NO. It was monotonous, boring." He checked the lights and looked across at her. "Barren." He shook his head again for emphasis. "Not peaceful."

She kinked a not completely convinced eyebrow at him and he glanced at the rear view mirror, considering. After a lengthy pause he came back with, "It was more … predictable, but predictability is over-rated." He cocked his head shyly and admitted, "It wasn't really living."

Just as the light finally turned green he reached over with his right hand to squeeze her thigh.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It was a little-known fact. Not that it was particularly weird or perverse, and it was far from being criminal. Gil didn't hide it, but he didn't flaunt it either. It was what it was.

He ironed his handkerchiefs. Which meant he actually owned handkerchiefs. No Kleenex for Gilbert Grissom. Large cotton squares, mostly plain white (which Sara secretly thought boring), muted plaids and a few checkered ones. And, for best, white linen finery with GG embroidered in one corner. He used them, he washed them — using non-chlorine bleach when he deemed it necessary — and what's more he ironed them.

Sara had given him a hard time at first, convinced of the hygienic benefits of disposable tissues. He had countered with pure natural fibers, drying them in the hot Nevada sun and the pressing heat of the iron killing any bacteria. The gentleness of the fine fabric. Saving trees.

That last one he said with a knowing smirk.

The plain truth was that he was used to handkerchiefs, he liked them and he found the simple act of ironing and folding them into tidy squares restful, somehow therapeutic. Hearing that, Sara gave up her protests. He'd obviously thought about it a lot. It was another little facet of the man she loved, and that was that.

He hadn't converted her, not at first, but they had both been happy maintaining their status quo. Live and let live was a large part of their modus vivendi.

She was chaotic, he had handkerchiefs. Sara snorted at the thought.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

There was a sudden jolt and Sara opened her eyes as the Muni railcar rattled to a halt. Ocean Beach, the end of the N line. She had barely noticed as they had trundled along Judah Street. Was the route that she'd chosen trying to tell her something?

Again she heard Gil's voice in her head, insisting, "You're no Judas. You're betraying no-one. You're doing what you need to do." After a pause he added, "I love you. Now and forever. Remember that."

Sara squared her shoulders and drew in a deep breath of the salty air, trying to distract herself from her tender, tantalizing, tearing memories. Despite his encouraging approach, that had been a hard phone call.

Over her shoulder she slung her canvas satchel, a souvenir of her recent traipse through a bazaar-like store in Chinatown, and waited behind the other passengers as they negotiated the deep steps down to the curb. The trio of teenagers, who looked like they were playing hooky from school, leapt down first and sauntered towards the Java Beach Café. They teased each other self-consciously, their loud nervous laughs carrying on the breeze.

The sparsely-bearded young guy in the army surplus jacket loped in the direction of the Golden Gate Park; the elderly Chinese woman, black-garbed and bow-legged, limped off to the left. Again, always, Sara found herself being reminded of Gil, in the most unlikely places.

Whenever she thought of him it was a bitter-sweet experience; while she clung tightly to her cherished memories of their life together, they were tinged with the dark shadows she knew she had cast by fleeing.

Gil said he understood why she'd left as she had, but try as he might he couldn't hide the hurt, the sorrow he felt at her departure, and the fear in his voice that she might never return. No matter how supportive his words, she still felt guilty about it, she worried that she had damaged him, them beyond repair. And he kept trying to convince her otherwise.

Sara's ruminations were interrupted by the foghorn sound which signaled a new text message.

GG: Still on shift

She checked the time and speedily replied.

SS: Sleep overdue surely?

GG: YAWN

SS: Set others searching

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It had started after their first phone conversation, with Gil insisting that he would wait for her, be available every hour, every day, whenever she wanted to contact him, by phone, by email, IM. And if she sent him an SOS, he would go to her in a flash. Or, he clarified, ever precise, as fast as he could humanly get there.

Somehow that had morphed into them exchanging these non-emergency SOS messages. They did speak every so often, but this was how they connected on a daily basis, giving an idea of what was going on, how they were feeling.

When Sara was eating at a whole foods café —

SS: superlative organic sandwich

GG: spinach or sprouts?

Gil dealing with politicians —

GG: stupid ornery sycophants

SS: sidestep obvious strife

Sara enjoying the end of a rainy spell —

SS: sunshine on shoulders

GG: sunscreen on skin?

And when he was missing her most —

GG: sadness of solitude

SS: so overwhelmingly sorry

When the messages became too cryptic or melancholy, they knew it was time to talk again.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

They had developed this sort of rule or perhaps more of a habit — whoever started the exchange of texts, the other finished it. So Sara decided to leave it there for the moment. Gil sounded overworked and she had to get off the street car.

She was already wearing sunglasses; after several foggy days the sun was shining, and the glare was hard on her eyes. That had to be why they were watering.

She allowed herself that little denial.

And patted her left hip pocket.

Sara jumped down to the sidewalk, checked for traffic then strode across the pavement. Following the winding path she made her way up and over the dunes onto the beach. A brisk breeze — those unaccustomed to the coast might have called it a wind — whipped strands of hair over her face. Sara quickly gathered it together into a rough ponytail, using a hair elastic that she dug out of her jeans pocket. She zipped her jacket up against the cooler air rolling off the waves then, somewhat perversely perhaps, sat on the sand to take off her sneakers. Her feet could warm up again afterwards. Stuffing her socks into the toes, she tied the laces together and hung the shoes over her bag.

She wasn't going to paddle; even in the height of summer the water was cool, but for her, walking on beaches required bare feet. Sara snorted faintly at the thought. Maybe she didn't have routines like Gil's, but this was certainly a long-entrenched habit of hers.

Huh.

Different strokes.

She glanced left and right, deciding which way to go. North. Turning right she headed toward the cliffs with the white blocky shape of Cliff House rising above. Out from there stood Seal Rock.

The tide was on the way out, the sand glistening as the water receded. That's where she walked. She loved the smooth, giving firmness of the wet sand, how it gently sucked at her bare soles and released with each step, the way her footprints lingered for a moment then gradually disappeared as the damp grains re-found their level. After a couple of minutes she stopped and turned, looking back at her tracks. As she watched the more distant impressions were filling in, fading away. The sand was losing all trace of the person who had just passed over it.

Nothing lasts forever.

That can be a good thing.

TBC