In A Nanosecond
The dim sunlight permeates into the darkened room through the blinds, softly caressing a body which not long ago was more than a corpse (more than a case to be investigated later by his fellow employees, red-eyed over the loss of someone they would later refer to as a dear friend). Tucked carefully in his bowled fist is a piece of paper with a two-word hint of an excuse for his actions. An empty bottle of sleeping pills (which will later be put inside a plastic bag and filed as evidence) is still placed on the otherwise empty coffee table.
It takes two days for the body to be found, as it often does in quiet cases of suicide, and Catherine gets the first phone call at five in the morning. Grissom is phoned immediately after that; they're in his apartment by six o'clock. The apartment is surrounded by the familiar, tangy scent of death, and she can't help bursting into tears all over again, even though she thinks she's past that, the crying-over-your-colleague's-death phase; there's the sudden thought that maybe Grissom is past that but she isn't, as he holds her in his arms, silently comforting her.
They bag the little evidence they have when he dares to touch the body; the touch somehow makes it feel all the more real, a shot of pain from the cold body spreads from the tip of Grissom's fingers and into his body, like disease. What is it that caused this perfectly normal, perfectly happy man he's known for quite a while now commit suicide? (Catherine is still trying to find evidence of murder in vain, but he's seen too many suicides to believe it was anything but that). He usually doesn't spend much time working on suicide cases.
He takes a while longer to examine those pale lips and the contrast of dark hair against lifeless skin, this somewhat content, somewhat agonized expression. Whatever it was, (Grissom thinks), it's gone now.
It's only a matter of time until he finds the note.
The feeling of finding someone's suicide note is always awkward, because it usually means that the case is closed; the key evidence. Grissom unfolds the paper and stares at it blankly.
She notices then that he's been in the same position way too long.
Grissom wishes she wouldn't, but then she takes the note and reads it out loud; "Goodbye, Grissom." Two simple words, but he really does wish she hadn't. The words echo in his ears, first in her voice and then in his. "Wow," is all she says, "he must've really liked you."
He must've. Catherine is silent when she gives him back the note; he has no idea what she's thinking.
It feels like taboo now to even glance at the body, yet he can't take his eyes off of it. He thinks about all the things that can happen in a nanosecond.
"Goodbye, Nick." He whispers. It's okay to cry now.