A/N: A new story featuring GSR! Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom! Enjoy!

Sara Sidle's Spring

Chapter 1

May, 2004

Sara Sidle had not closed the curtains and light was coming in when she woke. Moonlight, she thought, and music was playing. The words suggested romance. As she took one of her hands in the other, she tried to imagine what it would feel like to have another person hold her hand. Grissom had taken her hand; she remembered her mortification. It felt like disappointment and disapproval, not romance.

In her groggy state, she sighed, shifted her legs, and closed her eyes.

Sometimes, she thought she might die of loneliness. Others often said they might die of boredom or die for a cup of coffee but for her, it was the ache for human contact; someone to touch her, hold her. Not a lover—she'd given up the idea that another person might love her in that way. Hank had proved it. Gil Grissom had confirmed it.

Her human contacts were always work related and most of them were dead humans. Even when partying with Nick and Warrick, the physical contact was brief, a hand on her shoulder, a tap to her back. A few times, Grissom had touched her, held her bleeding hand, closed his fingers on her elbow—no more than he would do to Catherine.

Her brain managed to function beyond the light and music; it took a minute for her to realize she was in her bed, between sheets and covered with a blanket. As her tongue swept over her dry mouth, her eyes found a glass beside the bed. She did not remember putting a glass there—she didn't remember getting into bed. Feeling a soft shirt against her chest, she had a fuzzy recall of a shower and changing clothes.

Abruptly, memory flooded back and she fought her gag reflex with a fist to her mouth. She wanted to die. Really die—disappear from the face of earth—as she suddenly remembered Grissom's arrival, how she'd gotten home. As she pressed her head into the pillow, she heard other sounds, footsteps and a low humming.

The footsteps stopped beside the bed; her eyes were closed so she depended on hearing. Perhaps she could pretend to be asleep, but no luck.

"How are you feeling?" Gil Grissom spoke very quietly.

Her usual word came too slowly; she'd learned years ago that people wanted to hear "fine" when asking how she felt.

Instead, she said, "Why are you still here?" As soon as she said the words, she regretted it. He had been kind and considerate as he'd picked her up and brought her home. She had gotten in the shower and stayed long enough that he had left her apartment when she got out of the bathroom. She remembered stumbling into bed—onto the bed—before passing into an alcohol induced sleep.

But he had returned and somehow, she knew he had put her to bed—into the bed, pulled covers over her as she slept. Embarrassment, humiliation, shame—no word could describe what she felt.

"I've made you some tea," he said, gently. "Ginger lemon—supposed to be good for you."

She had no ginger in the apartment. Mutely, she nodded her head.

A few minutes later, he returned with a mug and Sara eased her head from the pillow. When she took the mug, he moved to the end of the bed and sat down, watching silently as she sipped the warm sweet liquid.

Finally, she said, "Thank you."

When he took the empty cup, he said, "Get some rest. I'll be back in a few hours." He closed the curtains and, a few minutes later, she heard water running as he washed the cup.

The next time she woke, she reached for the glass sitting next to the bed and drank all of the water. Closed curtains darkened the room but the tell-tale angle of light confirmed she'd slept for several hours. Quickly, she determined she was alone.

Stretching her legs, rubbing her eyes with her palms, the ache in her head had diminished to a dull throb. She moved slowly as she got out of bed, finding her kitchen clean, trash removed, and a muffin, a banana and an apple on the counter top. As she peeled the banana, she thought about her life. She'd known for weeks that she was drinking too much—a couple of beers when she got home, sleeping for a few hours and then another beer or two or something a bit stronger before going to sleep again. She had convinced herself that a hot shower cleared her head before work.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, she wanted to cry. Years of suppressing emotions had taught her that tears seldom helped any situation—anger usually worked but she could only be angry with herself for this—this humiliation. She did not know what to do next.

She made a cup of tea and walked around the small apartment—it felt like a jail cell. She'd walked in closets larger than her entire apartment, she thought. The hot tea made her eyes water, not her feelings. Washing her face in cold water made her feel better—at least she could think.

Her unresolved feelings for Gil Grissom were crushing her life; she knew it was her fantasy, not his. At times, he teased her, flirted with her, paid her attention and her hopes soared. The next day, she was dismissed as if she didn't exist. Taking a deep breath, telling herself she would and could move on with her life—she didn't believe it and silently swore at her pathetic thoughts.

When she was putting her cup in the sink, a soft knock sounded on her door. True to his word, Grissom had returned. With food.

"Sara—how are you feeling?"

"Fine, thanks."

Grissom held out two white bags, saying, "Lunch."

He stood at the door, waiting.

Sara said, "Come in" and gestured with a wave of her arm.

Walking into her kitchen, she was surprised at how—how familiar he seemed to be with everything, opening the correct drawer for forks, pulling napkins out of a basket. After indicating she should be on the other side of the bar, he talked about the food he'd brought as he placed it on her plates and placed one in front of her. The other he kept in front of him so they were on opposite sides and facing each other. For several minutes, they ate in silence.

Grissom spoke first. "I'll arrange for you to take a week off—line up a PEAP counselor." He reached into his pocket and handed her a folded paper. "These are ones on the department list." He held the paper between his fingers as she took it. With an audible sigh, he said, "I don't want to visit again—and—and find…" He stumbled on words. "I know you are a private person but get outside—take a walk every day. Maybe—maybe visit your mother."

Sara stared at him for a few minutes as he continued to eat. Numbly, she nodded. Somehow, she managed to eat even as her throat seemed to constrict and Grissom talked about some mundane occurrence at the lab, a mix-up in delivery of supplies between the morgue and one of the hospitals.

When they had finished the meal, she protested as Grissom cleaned up the carry-out boxes and washed the two plates.

He picked up the folded paper she had put on the bar, saying, "You'll do this, right?"

She nodded and took the PEAP counselor list from him, managing to say, "I'll do it today." For a moment, their eyes met. She whispered, "Thanks, Grissom—for everything."

His hand reached for hers, gently resting his fingers to the top of her hand. He said, "Sara, you are indispensable—an extremely good employee—I—I could not wish for a more dedicated person." His eyes met hers for a few seconds before he looked away and picked up the small bag of trash from their meal. His hand moved away from hers.

"Thank you," Sara murmured; she slipped from the stool as Grissom moved toward the door.

Stopping when he reached the door, he said, "It's spring." Smiling, he opened the door, adding, "Get outside—get some daylight."

With those words, he was gone as quickly as he had arrived. With a deep sigh, Sara leaned against the door and closed her eyes. Subconsciously, she twisted the paper between her fingers until she left the door, found her phone, and punched in the first number on the list.

A/N: Let us hear from you! More to come...thank you for reading!