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It was true, then, that you could hear about something for nearly a year, know that it could happen, but when it did...

...it was still enough to take your breath away.

Only six minutes ago, Grissom had been going through a drawer in the lab, sorting out papers and instruments and glass slides. All of those things were normal. He expected the sharp edge of a slide, the cool roundness of a beaker. But the smooth, coiled power of leather and pain?

Grissom pulled the whip from the drawer, staring at it in complete numbing shock. Of course he knew it. It was Heather's. He'd held it tight the night before he'd come here, held her too. When the bile rose up in the back of his throat, he almost dropped it. As it was, the whip uncoiled from his fingers and made a straight, bold line from his hand to the floor.


It was one of those nights, where he'd been up late with a book in the lab, and had fallen asleep on top of the open pages. Probably a sign he really was getting old.

He woke up with a start, and swore softly to himself. Falling asleep in odd places was one thing for a lonely geek bachelor, but Grissom was a married man and he had a wife who could both kill him and get away with it.

So he stood and headed for home--

--or at least he tried to head for home. He was distracted by his reflection in a window. About four seconds later, he realized the island had done something again.

"Well, at least this time it's not bad," said Grissom to himself, watching his mouth move. His mouth that was a good twenty years younger than it'd been last night. A look down confirmed his physique matched that switch as well.

He couldn't help but grin a little then, and whistled to himself as he again set out in search of Sara.


Ruby blue.

This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

Gil Grissom had woken up in his own bed. In his own apartment.

Completely alone, and certainly not on a tropical island. No, looking outside confirmed he was back in Vegas. The only thing that suggested he'd been on Tabula Rasa at all was his lack of beard.

Frantic, he'd gone for his phone, and only when the cool metal and plastic was in his hand did he stop. This Sara... wasn't going to be his Sara. She would be the one from before, and he loved her too, because they were the same, but she didn't know.

They weren't-- they weren't together. He had to bend over, almost retching from the intensity of the shock and grief. And when he was done, he wiped his eyes, got dressed, and went to the only place he could think of: the lab.

Where he sat at his desk, staring into one of the bug cages, waiting for someone to come by.


The kitchen wasn't exactly safe. There were people in there, people who knew things about cooking and who didn't appreciate a good explosion.

Not that Grissom was actually planning to make anything explode at the moment. That could wait-- he'd found Brennan's stash of gun powder the other day. At the moment, he was instead testing the formation of Bunsen burners under a pot of water for the best heat distribution.

At the sound of someone entering the lab, he looked up, maybe a little bit guiltily.


Apr. 28th, 2007

It was because Sara happened to be the love of his unusual and late-blooming life that so many things that happened these days were firsts.

For instance, at fifty, he was having his first pregnancy scare.

Not that he was really scared, per say, making the saying a bit inaccurate, but the fact remained that Sara could be pregnant. He frowned a little at the book he'd been trying to read. There were plenty of good, logical reasons that this would be a bad time and place for such a thing, but-- well, they weren't leaving, were they. So it was this place or never, at least for this version of himself.

Grissom shook off the paradox before it got fully formed, and looked up as Sara entered the hut.


Homeless no longer!

It was finally finished.

Grissom had been patient, especially with the extra time things were taking in light of the dinosaur rampage and the tsunami. He'd been helping, as was the thing to do here, especially when one didn't want to look like a feeble old man. (And he'd been pleased to find that the work helped make him look less like a feeble old man indeed.)

Then there'd been the matter of moving the things they'd brought and the things they'd collected, which went fairly quickly.

And now-- now he stood with his wife, which was still amazing to even think about-- in the doorway.


Mar. 6th, 2007

There were several books about butterflies spread out over the lab counter, and Grissom leaned over them, squinting a little as he picked out the species he'd been able to identify. He wanted to cross-check, make sure he had all the possible larval and nectar food plants.

It was difficult to concentrate because he was still wrapping his mind around the fact that he'd proposed to Sara-- and she'd said yes.

He grinned at nothing, and then went back to the book, only a little aware of footsteps behind him.

Interested in beauty.

It had started with a memory--

--Sara next to him, warm against his side in an ice rink, asking when he'd become interested in beauty--

--and suddenly he'd known what he wanted to do for the time being. No, it wasn't useful in the sense that many of the other science-types here were trying to be. But it called to him all the same.

He'd cleared out a moderately-sized space not too far from the waterfall (a place that always inspired him now), and was beginning to transplant, well, plants. Vegetation.

"It's going to be a butterfly garden," he told her quietly, for once quick moment feeling a flash of trepidation.