Previous part of part of Filthy.

***

Wordlessly, Hotch poured the expensive scotch into the glasses. The team leader was dead tired and wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest. However, he felt he was still too upset to find sleep right now. He needed to unwind; to settle down in his favorite armchair in his own living room.

Hotch handed one of the glasses to Gideon who sat equally silent on the couch. The unit chief had offered his former colleague to spend the night in his guest room. Since Haley and Jack had moved out, there was too much space in the house anyway.

"Thank you," Gideon murmured as he took the drink from the younger man. He watched Hotch slump down into the armchair which was facing the couch.

"So Prentiss went with Reid?" the retired profiler asked, before taking a small sip of scotch.

Hotch nodded wearily. The female agent had volunteered to take Reid back to the clinic together with Emerson. After a long argument, Hotch had managed to convince Jacobs to let the young profiler go back to the sanatorium and to not have him locked up in the prison cell again. Being too exhausted to struggle with the former prosecutor any longer, the detective had reluctantly agreed - on the condition that the hospital room was guarded by two police officers.

When Hotch made no attempt to say anything, Gideon went on: "Gerald told me what happened."

The younger man gave him a short glance and brought the glass to his lips. "Good," he mumbled before taking a slug of his drink.

Gideon wasn't sure what to make of the situation. He was sure that Hotch was still somewhat angry with him. On the other hand the team leader had invited him into his home.

"You told Garcia to locate me," the older man said after a long minute of silence.

"Yes."

"I really don't know how I'm supposed to help Reid," Gideon pointed out. He put the half empty glass on the coffee table and leaned back, his gaze focused on Hotch. He wanted a few answers now. "What do you expect from me, Hotch?"

The senior profiler smiled humorlessly. "Nothing, Jason. I expect nothing from you." There was no anger in Hotch's voice. He just sounded very tired and definitely fed up with the world.

"Gerald deemed it a good idea to get you here," he explained quietly. "I have no idea why. But I trust him and Reid seems to get along with him."

"He's good," Gideon agreed. "I'm sure he's the best one to help Reid."

Hotch gave his former co-worker a scrutinizing stare. Finally: "We found him with a bloodied knife, Jason. He might have killed those people."

"No," the older man replied quickly. "We're talking about Reid here. He would never harm anyone. You know that!"

Hotch shook his head. He wanted to agree; he wanted to have faith in his youngest agent, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore all the doubts that had crept into the back of his mind.

"Reid isn't himself anymore," he said calmly. "He hasn't been ever since Vegas. Even if the murders hadn't taken place, I don't think that..." Hotch trailed off, not wanting to say it aloud.

Gideon knew, of course. "You don't think he'll get over it?"

"You know what happened after Georgia," the team leader said thoughtfully.

The retired profiler frowned. "This is different."

"Yes. It's worse."

Again, they fell silent. There seemed to be so much to say, yet so little they could do.

"I'm glad you were there for him," Gideon said after a while. "He knows that you and the team always stand behind him."

Hotch snorted dismissively. "Yeah." He stood up and started to move towards the bedroom. "Unfortunately it wasn't me he needed there, Jason. He needed you."

---

"How much longer?" Prentiss asked quietly from the back seat.

"Only a few minutes. We're almost there." Gerald Emerson rode shot gun, giving the driving officer the direction to the St. Lousianne's Sanatorium. The psychologist was very concerned about the events of the night. According to Hotch, Reid had actually considered to jump off the roof. And, even worse, the young man seemed to believe that Sanders had committed suicide. Since there had been no body found anywhere near the building, Emerson was seriously worried about his patient's mental condition – much more than before the mission.

However, the doctor was glad that Hotch had persuaded Jacobs to let Reid return to the hospital. Emerson was convinced that the young man didn't belong in a prison cell, especially not after tonight. He glanced back through the rear window of the SUV and saw the headlights of the second police car behind them. The psychologist didn't think that Reid needed to be watched by cops, but he understood that the detective wanted to keep a close eye on his suspect.

As the car made a turn to the right, Prentiss noticed the sanatorium come into sight. They'd been on the road for almost an hour and she was glad to finally be there. The night had been exhausting for everyone, but Hotch had looked particularly worn out. That's why she'd decided to accompany Emerson and Reid on the way back to the clinic.

The profiler looked at her colleague who lay curled up on the back seat next to her. Reid had fallen asleep almost instantly after she had brought him to the car. Prentiss couldn't help but smile at the sight of her sleeping co-worker. She knew he was brilliant and a very gifted profiler. She also knew that he didn't like being considered a kid who needed to be protected.

Still...he looked so terribly young. Young and vulnerable and Prentiss could feel her maternal instincts kick in. She wanted to help him, to show her support, but didn't know how. She hadn't gotten the chance to talk to him since Vegas. Neither had JJ or Garcia. Prentiss understood that Hotch had wanted to protect Reid's privacy. Nonetheless, it had hurt the women to be left out in the cold. They cared about their youngest too, just as much as the others did.

The dark haired agent was startled out of her thoughts when the driver stopped the engine.

"Let's go," Emerson said quietly and climbed out of the car.

Prentiss tentatively touched her sleeping colleague's arm. "Reid, wake up. We're here."

The younger man's eyes snapped open immediately. He jerked back, causing Prentiss to take her hand away. He stared at her for a few seconds, apparently struggling to figure out what was going on.

"Emily?"

She gave him a friendly smile.

"We're back at the hospital, Reid," the older agent explained calmly. "It's time to get some rest."

They led the young profiler back to his room. A couple of times Reid's legs wanted to give way, and that forced Prentiss and Emerson to support him from both sides.

It was a silent, straining walk through the quiet sanatorium. Due to the late hour, there were no patients to be seen and only a few staff members who were working the night shift.

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally arrived at Reid's room.

"Careful," Emerson murmured as he led his patient through the door. The psychologist switched on the light as he stepped over the threshold. "There we are."

Reid slumped down onto the bed, his forehead bathing in cold sweat. Prentiss sat down right next to him.

"You alright?" she asked Reid, worried about the unhealthy white color on his face.

The younger man nodded barely noticeably. He glanced nervously at Prentiss, then at Emerson who was standing at the door.

"I tried to stop him," Reid said quietly. "He didn't have to jump. I tried..." The young profiler let his gaze drop.

Prentiss frowned and gave Emerson a questioning look. She thought that now was probably not the time to tell Reid that...

"But I'm glad it's over, Emily," the younger man continued.

Prentiss felt sick. Of course, she realized. Of course, Reid had to think that the case was over now. After all, they hadn't brought him back to the cell. Not to mention that he was still convinced that Sanders was dead. Oh God...

"Uhm, Reid, I...," she began hesitantly.

"You should get some sleep, Spencer," Emerson cut her off. He gave Prentiss a slight shake of head, signalizing her that right now was definitely not the best time to talk about the case.

She bit her lower lip. It felt so cruel to keep the truth away from Reid. On the other hand she knew that Emerson was right. The young man needed rest more than anything else at the moment.

"I want to shower first," Reid said weakly. Without making eye contact with anyone, he stood up and walked to the little bathroom.

Prentiss and Emerson watched him disappear, then listened to the sound of running water.

The psychologist sighed. "How about a coffee? We have a great espresso machine here."

The female agent gave him a warm smile. "Sounds good."

Reid leaned with his back against the tiles, enjoying the feeling of too hot water running down his tired body. It had been too long. He'd taken his last shower the day before at the police station. With Hotch watching him...

No, Reid thought and closed his eyes. Don't think about it.

He didn't want to think about anything anymore. Not tonight. He just wanted to get the dirt off his skin and then go to bed and try to go back into that blissful nothingness.

Reid turned off the water and stepped out of the cubicle, wrapping one of the big white towels around his hip.

Damn, he cursed inwardly as he noticed that he'd forgotten to bring his pajama to the bathroom. There was no way he could put on those filthy clothes again. For a minute Reid simply stood there, wondering what to do. It's just Emily and Gerald out there, the young profiler reminded himself. Nothing to worry about.

Heaving a deep sigh, he opened the bathroom door and stepped out. The people who were awaiting him, however, were not his friends. Two big uniformed men stood at the door, watching him as he emerged from the bathroom. Reid's heart skipped a beat.

"Who...what...?" he squeezed out, not knowing what to ask first.

"We're gonna keep you company tonight," one of the police officers said listlessly. He looked at the skinny wet kid he'd been told to keep an eye on tonight. "Wanna get dry maybe?" He asked, a smirk on his face.

Once again, Reid felt panic rising inside. What are they doing here? Why are they looking at me like that?

"Uhm, where is Dr. Emerson?" he asked meekly, trying to sound as calm as possible.

The officer shrugged. "Dunno."

Reid's eyes darted through the room. The men were blocking the door. I have to get out of here.

"Maybe," he began with a shivering voice. "Maybe I should go and find him." The young profiler moved slowly towards to exit.

The cops reacted instantly, pressing their backs against the door. "You're not going anywhere, boy," the taller one of them said firmly.

Reid felt trapped. He had to get out of the room. Now. He took a step further. "I...I just want to see..."

"Not gonna happen," the officer shot back and started to approach the smaller man with the towel.

And that was too much. Reid almost jumped at the policeman, gathering all the energy that was left inside him to fight his way to the door handle.

I need to get out.

---

It was about 20 minutes later that Aaron Hotchner got the call.

"What?" he asked rather unfriendly, wondering if he would ever get some sleep again.

"Aaron, sorry to disturb you," Emerson replied. "I think you should come here. Jacobs is already on his way."

Hotch sat now upright in his bed. "What's going on?"

A few seconds of uneasy silence.

"It's about Spencer. We had to restrain him," the doctor explained. "He...he's lost it somehow."

Hotch was already on his feet, holding his cell in one hand, picking up his clothes with the other.

"Lost it? What are you talking about? What happened?"

A sigh on the other side. "He attacked a police officer."

***

Aaron Hotchner and Jason Gideon climbed wordlessly up the stairs inside the St. Lousianne's Sanatorium. They hadn't talked during the drive either. There wasn't much to say, really. At first, the BAU chief had wanted to go alone to the clinic, but Gideon had insisted on coming with him. Hotch just hadn't been in the mood for an argument with his former colleague, and had agreed.

The two men walked swiftly through the empty corridors on the second floor. Since the team leader had been in Emerson's office once, he knew the way. Silently, he led Gideon to the psychologist's room.

Hotch and Gideon entered the office without knocking.

"What the hell happened?" the unit chief asked as soon as he stepped over the threshold. He took a look around and noticed that everyone had gathered in the room. Emerson sat behind his desk, facing Detective Jacobs. Apparently, the doctor had been arguing with the policeman before Hotch's interrupting. Both men fell silent and shifted their focus to the profilers at the door.

Prentiss was on a chair, her head resting against the wall. On the small couch next to her sat another police officer, pressing a damp cloth against his cheek.

"Aaron, I'm glad you're here," Emerson said quickly. He stood up and moved around the desk towards his old friend.

"What's going on, Gerald?" Hotch asked again, his gaze wandering to the obviously injured cop.

"I can tell you what happened," Jacobs replied before Emerson had the chance to speak. "Your agent attacked my officer. I told you we should keep him in the cell, but you wouldn't listen and now..."

"Alright, stop it," the senior profiler interrupted. He gave Jacobs a stern look and turned to the other officer on the couch.

Never taking the cloth away from his face, the man glanced up, sending a questioning glance in his superior's direction. With an impatient gesture the detective motioned him to spill the beans already.

"We were keeping watch outside in the hallway," the policeman began. "Everything was quiet until someone started to scream like hell in the room. I went inside to see what was going on. And as I turned on the light the little freak jumped at me!"

"Watch your mouth," Hotch said sharply.

The officer rose from the sofa. He finally took the cloth away from his cheek, revealing a nasty looking wound.

"'Watch you mouth'?" he repeated incredulously and took a step closer to the senior profiler. "He attacked me!" The cop pointed at his injury. "He wanted to rip my face off!"

"Well, apparently you survived," Hotch shot back. He looked at Emerson. "How could you leave him alone with two men?" he wanted to know. After all, the psychologist knew exactly how uncomfortable the young agent felt around strangers, especially male strangers.

"He wasn't alone," Prentiss interjected. "I was with him in the room. I must have fallen asleep, I'm sorry," she said quietly.

Hotch looked at her in surprise. "What happened?" he asked, more softly this time.

The female profiler cleared her throat. "Reid was very exhausted. He came out of the shower and collapsed onto the bed. I don't think he even noticed that I stayed with him in the room," Prentiss explained. "I woke up when he started to scream. He must have been having a nightmare. Then he came in," she indicated to the policeman. "The lights went on and suddenly Reid was on him. It happened so fast, I couldn't stop him in time."

The team leader stared at Prentiss, then his eyes wandered to Emerson. "And you restrained him? Was there no other way? I mean...he's not that strong."

"We didn't have a choice, Aaron," the psychologist said calmly, remembering how furious the young man had been when Emerson arrived at the scene. "I tried to talk to him, but he fought like a trapped animal. I had to give him a sedative and restrain him. He's asleep now."

"You mean he's drugged now," Hotch retorted angrily. He couldn't understand how things could have gotten so heavily out of hand. Of course everyone was really exhausted by now, he mused, but something like that was just not supposed to happen. And he was sure that Reid's condition would only get worse after tonight.

"We should take him to the station," Jacobs suddenly announced. "He's dangerous and he belongs behind bars."

"No," the psychologist stated firmly. "Spencer wouldn't harm anyone willingly. It was just an unfortunate series of events. It won't happen again."

The detective shook his head. He was sick and tired of all the excuses made for the fed. To him, the situation was very simple. The kid was strongly suspected of murder and had to be locked up in a cell.

"With all due respect doctor," he said. "It's not your call. You've proven that you're not able to keep him under control. I won't take any more chances."

"He's constrained and sedated. What could he possibly do?" Prentiss asked tiredly.

The detective looked at her. And sighed. He just wanted this case to be over. He wanted to go home to his wife and his two teenage daughters – even though they were at a rather annoying age at the moment.

"Alright," he finally agreed. "He can stay here for the night. But this is not a long-term solution. I expect the results of the DNA sample from the knife by tomorrow." Jacobs looked at Hotchner. "Things will become clearer then."

The team leader nodded. He didn't really doubt that the blood on the knife belonged to the latest victim. The much more important question was whether Reid had been the one using the weapon or not. More specifically: had Sanders actually been there or not?

"Let's wait for the results," Hotch replied evenly, knowing that said results weren't going to be of much help to clear things up.

"Is he alone now?" Gideon asked out of the blue. He hadn't said a word until then.

"Yes, he needs to rest," Emerson explained.

"I want to see him."

---

I can't move. I'm lying stretched out on my back and I can't move. Something's holding me down. My arms are bound. I can feel it. And there's something in my system that won't allow me to get up.

My hair has fallen into my face; there are strands in my eyes. I can hardly stand it. I can't wipe the hair away because I can't move my arms. I try to blink it away, but it's not enough. I feel tears building up and slowly running down the side of my face and onto the pillow.

I wonder why they did that to me. I think Emily was there. Or was it JJ? A woman. Someone I used to trust, I'm sure. And I remember Gerald's voice telling them to strap me to the bed. I don't understand. I haven't done anything. I just wanted to get out.

"Sshh, it's okay."

I hear that voice again. That's impossible. He's dead. I want to turn my head to see, but still I can't even move an inch. As if I was restrained on the inside as well.

"They drugged you."

He tells me. I know they did.

Now I feel his hand stroking the hair out of my eyes. Finally.

"Thank you."

I whisper. Or perhaps I just think the words.

"You're so beautiful."

He says. And all I can think is 'no'.

His hand is still on my face, his fingers following the lines of my tears.

"Yes, you are."

And now he's coming closer. I can feel the heat of his body. How can he be alive? I saw him falling.

His lips on my mouth and I want to scream and and push him away. But I can't.

"I have to leave you for a little while."

He whispers as he breaks the kiss.

And suddenly I don't want him to go. I want him to help me. Someone, please, let me out.

"I have to give them what they deserve."

I blink. I don't know what he means. 'They'?

"But I'll come back for you. I won't let you down. I'm not like them."

His voice is fading already. I can hardly understand him anymore. But I can hear the door being opened...

---

Gideon and Emerson stepped quietly into the small hospital room. Hotch and Prentiss had stayed back in the office to discuss the further procedure with the policemen. Since Reid had been sedated and was most likely deeply asleep anyway, the psychologist had allowed Gideon to see his former protégé.

The men walked slowly to the bed where the agent lay flat on his back, his arms bound to the sides of the bed frame. Reid's eyes were slightly open.

"Can he hear us?" Gideon asked tentatively. The sight of the young genius almost broke his heart. To see the once so promising, eager profiler lying there helpless and drugged was hardly bearable for the older man.

"I don't think so," Emerson replied softly. "You shouldn't stay too long though." The psychologist gave Gideon a light assuring pat on the shoulder and left the room. He was sure that there must have been a strong bond between those two profilers before the senior agent had left the Bureau. He thought it would be good for them to re-establish their relationship in order to help Reid heal.

Gideon waited until the door fell shut, then moved closer to the bed. To be honest, he'd dreaded the moment of the reunion with his young friend. The retired profiler found it hard enough to cope with his failure himself; he wasn't sure how to deal with the person he had abandoned too many times. He didn't know if he would be able to handle Reid's reproaches.

At the moment, however, the young man didn't even have the chance to utter anything at all. No questions, no accusations, no insults, no explanations.

To Gideon, it felt like betrayal. There he was. After all the time he'd finally managed to come back and account for his actions and then...nothing.

It's not fair, the former agent mused as he looked down at the younger man.

Aloud he said: "I guess you'd like to shout at me." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "I wish you could. I wish we could talk."

There was no reaction. Reid just lay there. Every now and then his eyelids closed for a moment. His fingers twitched slightly and sometimes he seemed to take deep breaths that reminded of sighs.

Mere bodily reactions, Gideon thought sadly. He's completely out of it.

Nonetheless, he felt the urge to talk – if only to let Reid know he wasn't alone.

"I found a nice cabin in California. It's very close to the ocean. I'm sure you would love it there," he said lightly. "It's nothing special. Just a small cottage near the coast. But it's very peaceful."

The older man heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry, Reid. This should never have happened. I, uhm..." he trailed off, realizing that only a coward would apologize to someone who was totally oblivious to his surroundings. Therefore, Gideon decided to let the young man rest for a while. "Good night. I...I have to leave now," he said and started to move towards the exit.

Just as he gripped the door handle, he could hear a very quiet voice from behind, saying: "Don't." It was barely audible. More a breath than a word.

The retired profiler turned around abruptly. "Reid?" he asked and stepped back to the bed. "What did you say?"

The young agent hadn't changed his position at all; had not even turned his head. However, his mouth was slightly open, his lips moving as if trying to form words.

Gideon leaned down to understand what the younger man wanted to say.

"Don't what?" he asked again, thinking that perhaps Reid didn't want him to go away.

"Don't," Reid started again. A whisper into his old mentor's ear. "Don't forget...to leave a letter."

***

It was half past eight in the morning when Gerald Emerson exited his office with a big file in his hands. The night had been over too soon. He'd barely slept four hours after the police officers and the federal agents had left the sanatorium. Of course, one of the policemen had stayed to keep watch outside of Reid's room. Even though the young agent had been incapacitated, Jacobs had insisted on leaving a guard at the door.

Gideon hadn't said a word after his visit to Reid's room. Emerson didn't know what had happened, but the retired profiler had looked anything but happy. Silently, he'd gone home with Hotch.

The psychologist knew that Reid wouldn't be permitted to stay any longer at St. Lousianne's. Not after the attack. Emerson was convinced that the young man's violent outburst had been the result of a nightmare. Being faced with an unknown man after a bad dream must have been a shock for Reid. Still...Jacobs wasn't going to accept excuses anymore.

Emerson had a pretty good idea of where they were going to put his patient. Certainly someone would come and take him to a more secure institution. No-one would be able to prevent that from happening. Now it was the psychologist's turn to prepare Reid for the inevitable.

"Any trouble?" Emerson asked the police officer who was sitting on a chair next to the door to Reid's room.

Never taking his eyes from the newspaper on his lap, the cop shook his head.

Emerson knocked gently on the door. Since there was no reply, he opened it and stepped in. He sighed at the view of his young patient being strapped to the bed. Constraining people wasn't a common method in the sanatorium. And even though it had been necessary to do so the night before, Emerson couldn't help but feel guilty about his actions. He knew that this kind of treatment would only worsen Reid's already fragile emotional state.

"Good morning, Spencer," he said as he approached the bed. Emerson noticed that the younger man's eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.

The psychologist was sure that the effect of the medication must have worn off by now. He sat down on a chair next to the bed, hoping that the events of the night before hadn't damaged the young man beyond repair.

"Spencer? Can you hear me?" he asked in a friendly, yet firm tone.

Very slowly, Reid turned his head in the older man's direction. He didn't say anything, just looked at the doctor with tired eyes.

Emerson put on a slight smile. "Hey," he said quietly. "We need to talk about a couple of things."

Reid blinked once.

The older man leaned in a bit closer. "It's important for you to understand what I am saying. Talk to me, Spencer."

The young agent licked his dry lips and swallowed audibly. "Shower," he whispered.

Emerson rubbed the bridge of his nose. Of course, he thought.

Aloud he said: "I can't remove the chains right now. You will have to wait until Aaron arrives. I'm sure he's on his way."

And Jacobs too, the psychologist added inwardly.

He forced himself to ignore the pleading expression on his patient's face, and continued with the matter at hand.

"Spencer, do you remember what happened last night?"

The younger man seemed to think about it for a few seconds. Finally he nodded.

"Good," Emerson said. "Can you tell me what happened on the roof? How did you get there?"

Reid stared at the psychologist, then turned his gaze to the ceiling again. "He...he took me there."

"Who took you there?" the older man asked tentatively.

Reid closed his eyes. "Jase."

Emerson opened the folder in his hands and started to make notes.

He cleared his throat. "What happened then?"

"I...I tried to..." Reid shook his head. "I thought he had jumped. But...but then..."

Emerson watched his patient struggling for words. It pained him to see the young man pulling at the restraints. It wasn't an attempt to get free, just the natural urge to gesture while speaking.

"Then what?" he asked calmly.

Suddenly Reid went completely limp. He didn't pull at the chains anymore, but seemed to almost melt with the white mattress that matched the color on his face. As if something very heavy kept him down, sucking all remaining strength out of him.

"He's still here," Reid whispered. He closed his eyes tightly, but one single tear still managed to escape and rolled down his cheek.

"Spencer..."

"I know," the young agent interrupted quickly. "I know it's not possible, but I heard him...he...he..."

Emerson tried to sooth his patient. "It's okay..."

"It's not okay!" Reid shot back loudly, his eyes now fixated on the psychologist. "I'm all messed up! It seems so real and I don't...I can't..."

The older man kept quiet. He wanted to give Reid time to express his thoughts.

After a few seconds of silence, the profiler exhaled laboriously. "I'm trying to figure it out, but you keep drugging me and I...I just can't think straight."

Emerson nodded. In fact he'd been very careful with the medication; had only used meds if absolutely necessary. Still he could understand the younger man's reasoning.

"I'm sorry about the treatment last night, Spencer. You hurt a police officer. We needed to calm you," he said steadily. "Do you remember?"

Reid looked with big eyes at the doctor. Had he actually attacked someone? He couldn't remember. Only blurred and mixed up images about last night's events kept flashing in his mind. Images of blue and red lights, familiar and not so familiar faces, the sound of voices. He remembered Hotch talking to him, and Jase whispering into his ear and...

Oh God, Reid thought as another memory struck him.

"Was Gideon here?" he asked quietly.

The psychologist gave him a faint smile. "Yes. He came to visit. I thought you were asleep."

The young agent was about to ask further questions about his old mentor's whereabouts when the door opened.

"What the hell is that?" Morgan exclaimed as he stepped into the room. He stared at the restraints around Reid's wrists and ankles, then at Emerson. "It can't be necessary to tie him up like that."

"Morgan," Hotch hissed from behind, a warning tone in his voice. "Stop it."

As the team leader stepped closer to the bed, Emerson rose from his chair. Both men shook hands, before turning wordlessly to Reid who was now looking at the opposite wall. It was obvious that he didn't want to face his colleagues.

"Where is Jason?" Emerson asked very quietly as he lead the profiler away from the bed.

"I told him to stay at the station. Apparently, Reid didn't react too well to him last night," Hotch murmured. He quickly changed the subject. "Jacobs will be here soon," he stated in a low voice.

The team had gathered at the police station very early. It hadn't been a big surprise that the head detective had already arrived.

"He has the results of the DNA test," the unit chief said.

Emerson frowned. "Already? That was quick."

"Well, the sample had priority. The blood on the knife indeed belonged to the latest victim," Hotch stated evenly. He'd expected that result. Unfortunately, Jacobs had now hard evidence against Reid. He'd told the profilers that 'the suspect' was going to be moved to a closed facility today. No further discussion.

"That's not good," Emerson replied, glancing at his patient. "He's in a bad state. Both physically and mentally. I doubt seriously that he will last in a prison."

Hotch sighed. "It's not a prison, it's..."

"It's close enough. You know how they deal with people, especially with..."

It was Reid himself who interrupted the hushed conversation. "They will take me away, won't they?"

Everyone's gazes shifted to the young man on the bed.

Morgan was the first to look away. He couldn't reply. He knew if he opened his mouth to speak, some severely disrespectful words would emerge his lips and Hotch would tell him to take a walk. Therefore, he decided to keep silent. For now.

"I'm afraid so, Reid," the team leader said, trying not to show his fear for his youngest agent too openly. "It's protocol." Hotch was aware of how empty those words sounded, but he couldn't think of anything more assuring.

Reid looked at his boss. For a moment he forgot the two other persons in the room. He just focused on Hotch's face, trying to read his superior's eyes. Perhaps, he figured, perhaps Hotch couldn't talk freely with the others around. Perhaps his boss had a plan he couldn't give away right now. An ace up his sleeve. The young profiler found it impossible to believe that his friends were going to have him locked up like a psychopath.

So he kept staring at Hotch. And Hotch looked back. However, there was nothing. Pain, yes. Certainly worry and regret. But no glimmer of hope. Nothing.

Reid blinked and looked away. "Can I have a shower before?"

"Sure thing, kid," Morgan said instantly and started to remove the restraints.

"Morgan, we should..."

"What, Hotch?" the younger agent asked angrily. "Do you think he's gonna knock me out?"

The team leader sighed. "Alright. But hurry. I don't think we have much time."

Morgan continued to free Reid and helped him silently into an upright position.

"I have to come with you, buddy," he said on the threshold, knowing that his young colleague wouldn't like it.

But Reid understood that much. He'd stood at the edge of a roof the night before. Of course, they wouldn't let him go anywhere alone.

Hotch and Emerson watched the younger men disappear in the little bathroom.

The psychologist was the first to speak. "So what are you going to do about it?"

The unit chief knew very well what Emerson was talking about, but there really wasn't a satisfying answer.

"I don't know. We have to find Sanders," he said and rubbed his forehead.

The door opened again. More forcefully this time. Samuel Jacobs and two other cops entered the room.

"Where is he?" the detective blurted instantly, more than just a hint of panic in his voice.

Hotch lifted his hands in a calming gesture. "He's just taking a shower."

Jacobs glanced from Hotch to the bathroom door. The sound of running water confirmed the profiler's statement and the policeman relaxed again.

"The papers are signed. We have enough evidence to keep him in custody. I called the Virginia State penitentiary."

Hotch nodded. There was simply no way to prevent it from happening. Not even for a brilliant prosecutor like him.

Morgan sat on the toilet lid, waiting for Reid to finish his shower. He kept his head down, of course. He wouldn't have liked exposing himself in front of his co-workers either, even though he wasn't nearly as shy and self-conscious as Reid. Therefore, Morgan understood how hard the situation must be for the younger man.

He heard the cops arriving. Once again, he couldn't help but wonder why Hotch let this happen. Morgan knew that none of this was his boss' doing, but they all had gotten so used to Hotch dealing with politics; handling tricky situations; finding a solution. And now their unit chief just stood there and watched? Morgan knew it wasn't fair, but he was pissed. Pissed at Hotch, at Gideon, at the shrink and at the cops. And at himself. He couldn't stop the voice in his head saying he should have done something. What? Morgan had no idea. All he knew was that one of the most gentle and intelligent people he'd ever met was going to be locked up and drugged and treated like a wild animal in captivity.

"Damn," Morgan murmured as the dimension of the current situation became painfully clear to him. For the very first time he realized that they could actually lose Reid; that – perhaps – they already had.

Grabbing a towel, Reid stepped out of the narrow shower cubicle, putting an end to his colleague's dark thoughts.

The younger man quickly got dressed. When he was done, Morgan stood up and made an attempt to open the door. Reid's hand stopped him.

The older man abruptly turned around, looking down at the skinny hand placed on his own strong arm. A touch. A very light, almost imperceptible touch. Still it was physical contact – initiated by Reid. So simple, yet completely unexpected. Most important: it was a sign that said: I trust you.

"I didn't do it, Morgan. I didn't kill these people," Reid stated slowly but firmly. He held his colleague's gaze, hesitantly pulling his hand back.

"I know, Reid." And Morgan meant it. Granted, he'd had his doubts at the beginning. However, deep inside he'd always be convinced that his friend was innocent. A victim himself. Not a murderer.

Reid's eyes wandered to the door. He could hear Jacobs' voice outside. "You believe me?"

"Of course, I believe you."

A knock on the door startled them both. "I think we have to go now," the older agent said sadly.

Reid nodded. "Thank you, Morgan."

The drive to the Virginia State Hospital for the criminally insane took about fifty minutes. Reid was in the backseat with his hands cuffed behind his back. Jacobs sat right next to him, throwing suspicious glances at the younger man.

Hotch had insisted on staying with his subordinate. He was in the passenger seat, every now and then looking back to see if everything was alright. Nothing was alright, in fact. Hotch's mind kept racing, trying to figure out how to spare Reid yet another ordeal. But every strategy he could come up with ended with the conclusion: we need Sanders. Or another murder. Hotch almost winced as he realized what he was thinking. Of course, he didn't want anyone else to die. Then again: If Reid was locked up while another killing takes place...

No, the senior profiler mused. He couldn't rely on the vague 'hope' that the real Unsub would strike again. He needed to gather his team and finally do his job: find the Unsub.

If there is an Unsub at all...

Then the car stopped and Hotch decided to focus on his youngest agent instead. He knew Reid would need all the support he could get now.

Numbly, the unit chief walked behind his subordinate and the cops who half-led, half-dragged the profiler into the very secure looking building.

Two staff members that reminded a bit of Tristan Stuart's goons were awaiting them in the hallway. The men in the white coats wordlessly took Reid by his arms, while the director of the hospital talked with Jacobs.

Hotch decided to follow his agent who kept turning his head around to his boss. It was apparent that Reid had trouble keeping pace with the guards or nurses or whoever they were. By the weak looks of the young man, the team leader was actually worried that his agent's legs would give way. But the room – or rather cell – wasn't far away. Standing in front of the massive looking door with the tiny window in it, one of the guys started fiddling with the keys. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, gesturing Reid to step inside.

"The doctor will come to check on you in thirty minutes. Lunch at 12, dinner at 6. Shower time every morning at 7," the man with the keys said mechanically. "Co-operate and we'll get along just fine."

Reid stepped slowly into the cell. It wasn't like St. Lousianne's. There was nothing. The room seemed to consist of walls and walls only.

He turned to Hotch who eyed the room with a worried expression on his face.

"Hotch, please don't leave me here," Reid said, not caring about the pitifully pleading tone in his voice.

"I can't do anything, Reid," the older man replied. He'd never felt so inept in his entire life. He had to say something optimistic, at least. "I promise I'll do everything to get you out of here."

"You have to leave now, Sir," one of the white coat orderlies said impatiently.

Reid eyes darted from the guards to his boss, back to the guards. Then back to his superior.

"Please help me," he pleaded and made an attempt to grab Hotch's arm.

"Hey! Stay away," the man with the keys ordered loudly and moved to pull the younger man away while the other orderly somewhat forcefully led Hotch to the exit.

"I'll get you out of here!" the team leader repeated firmly.

Reid tried to see where his boss was going, but his view was blocked by the big man gripping his shoulders.

The young agent wanted to escape those hands; wanted to run and follow Hotch and talk to him. But the man in white wouldn't let go.

He didn't notice the other guy approaching from behind. He heard someone saying: "This is just until the doc comes with the meds." And suddenly something was wrapped around him, immobilizing his arms. He felt himself being pushed down and then the door fell shut.

And all Reid could do was crawl into one of the four brightly lit corners, waiting for whoever was going to come through the door next.

***

When Hotch and Morgan arrived at the police station, they were greeted by the worried faces of the other team members.

"What happened?" JJ asked as soon as the two profilers entered the office. Prentiss and Gideon approached quickly, anxiously looking at Hotch. Apparently, they had the same question in mind.

Hotch glanced at them, before walking straight into a vacant room. "He's in the State Hospital now," the team leader said. He deliberately skipped the 'for the criminally insane' part. Everyone could guess what 'State Hospital' meant in Reid's case. There was no need to express it aloud.

The others followed him into the office. "We can't leave him there!" Prentiss exclaimed. She had a pretty good idea of how people were being 'held' in a clinic like this. The female profiler couldn't see how Reid was supposed to last there.

"We don't have a choice," Hotch replied evenly.

Gideon groaned. "This is all my fault."

Morgan threw his former colleague a hostile look. "Yeah, well..."

"Stop it!" the unit chief demanded instantly. Another fight was the last thing they needed right now. "Blaming each other won't do Reid any good. The only way to get him out of there is to find Sanders."

The others fell silent. They knew Hotch was right. Reid wouldn't benefit from their pity and feelings of guilt. Everything had happened so quickly. Their youngest had been accused of murder and locked up in clinic. During the last couple of days the agents had been busy worrying and wondering what this was all about. Now that Reid had been put in a prison-like institution, the team couldn't ignore the task at hand anymore.

"We need a working profile of Christian Sanders," Hotch stated the obvious. "JJ, call his psychiatrist. We need his input. And tell Garcia to gather as much information about Sanders as possible. Family, education, criminal records, shoe size, anything. Understood?"

The media liaison nodded and headed out of the room, already dialing on her cell phone.

"What is this about?" Jacobs stormed into the office, glaring at the unit chief. "You're not working this case anymore."

"We're only trying to help," Hotch said calmly.

The detective looked puzzled. "Help? I don't need help. I've got the killer."

"I don't think so," Morgan interjected quickly.

Jacobs' gaze shifted to the younger agent for a moment. He was wondering what was going on with these people. A whole team of highly skilled profilers in complete denial?

The policeman turned back to Hotch. Before he could speak, however, the team leader lifted his hand to stop him.

"Look," Hotch began. "You have Reid. You won't lose anything if we keep looking for Sanders. We know he's on the run. If he isn't the killer, okay. But we have to at least try to find him."

Jacobs thought about it a minute. In a way, he could relate. If one of his colleagues was accused of a crime, the detective would do anything to free him of suspicion, too. And Hotchner was right. There was no risk in letting them do their profiling exercises.

"Alright. You can work in this office," Jacobs agreed. "But don't use any police resources."

"We don't need your resources," Morgan countered. "We have Garcia."

---

Reid felt cold. Half an hour ago the men in white had taken him to the physician of the State Hospital. They'd told him that his bodily state had to be checked before they could start dealing with his mental problems.

The young agent had tried to convince them that he didn't have any mental problems but the guys who seemed to be guards and nurses at once wouldn't listen.

"I'm Dr. Franklin," the physician introduced himself as the trio entered the room.

Perhaps Reid would have shaken the doctor's hand, but the straight jacket they'd forced on him pretty much prevented that.

"I think you can take it off now," Franklin said to the guards, and pointed at the immobilizing garment around the young agent's torso.

"I've read Dr. Emerson's files about you, Mr. Reid..."

"Dr. Reid."

The older man in the white robe glanced up at the new patient. "Excuse me?"

The profiler cleared his throat. "It's Dr. Reid. I'm a Federal Agent."

Franklin nodded. "I know. It's in the file. But fact is that you're here for a reason. Apparently, they suspect you of murder, Dr. Reid." He sarcastically put emphasis on the agent's title, signalizing that he wasn't overly impressed by the academic degree. "Don't expect to be treated any other way than your fellow inmates."

Reid didn't reply. He swallowed and let his gaze drop to the floor.

"The file says you have an eating disorder."

Now the young man's head snapped up again. What had Emerson written about him? "No, I don't..."

But Franklin just kept reading the notes he held in his hands. "The file says that you refuse to eat, or rather refuse to keep the food down. In my book, that's an eating disorder." The doctor paused to look at the skinny person in front of him. It didn't take a genius to see that the young man was ill.

"I want to do a few tests," Franklin finally announced. "Strip to your waist, please."

---

Christian Sanders' psychiatrist, Dr. Kuttler, had arrived at the police station. Together with the BAU team he now sat in the closed room, trying to help the profilers create an accurate profile of his vanished patient.

It turned out that Sanders had left the clinic in Pennsylvania about a month ago.

"And you didn't look for him?" Prentiss asked irritatedly.

"Of course, we announced him missing," Kuttler defended himself. "But he wasn't a prisoner. He hadn't been convicted and we didn't classify him as dangerous."

"He might have killed four people," the female agent shot back.

"He's never shown any signs of violent behavior. There were no indications that..."

"Alright, let's focus on the profile," Hotch demanded. "What can you tell us about Sanders' psychological state?"

Kuttler sighed and leaned back in his chair. "As I told Dr. Emerson already, he's suffered a psychotic break, triggered by the sudden release from a long-term captivity. He's paranoid and delusional. At the beginning he had hallucinations about his captors and 'clients'. After a while his focus shifted entirely to a person he called 'Matt'. I had no idea that he was an agent of yours."

Hotch entwined his fingers on the table and looked the psychiatrist straight in the eye. "What does he see in Reid?"

Kuttler hesitated. He wasn't sure how to put it. Certainly he didn't want to upset the feds further.

"Well," he began slowly. "Obviously there has been some sort of closeness between Christian and Dr. Reid during their captivity. They had sexual contact which was probably not consensual."

"Of course it wasn't!" Morgan called instantly.

The psychiatrist nervously glanced up. When he saw the angry expression on the strong looking agent's face, he decided to look at Hotchner again. He went on: "It is impossible to tell whether my patient has always been homosexual because there don't seem to be any close relatives or friends we could ask. It doesn't really matter, actually. In his delusional state he considers Dr. Reid a lover. And he thinks that this attraction is reciprocative."

Before someone could respond to this, JJ rushed into the room.

Hotch looked up. "What is it?"

"Garcia did some research on Sanders' family. His parents died when he was a teenager. Car accident. No siblings," the media liaison said quickly.

Dr. Kuttler shrugged. "As I said. No-one we could question about his lifestyle before the capture."

For a few seconds, everyone kept silent.

Gideon, who had quietly been sitting in the corner until then, was the one to speak first. "Did Sanders ever talk about seeing Reid again?"

The psychiatrist turned around to the retired profiler. "Yes, he made plans."

---

He was alone in his cell again. The physician had told Reid that he needed to eat; told him that his blood pressure was too low and that his weight had reached a dangerously low level.

"Eat or we will have to feed you through a tube. We can't let you starve, Dr. Reid."

Those had been Dr. Franklin's words. And now the door opened and the men in white appeared with a metal tray.

"Lunch time," one of the nurses said and took the plastic dishes from the tray.

Reid stood with his back pressed against one of the walls. Was he supposed to eat from the floor? Not that he felt like eating anyway.

"Doctor said you have to eat at least half of it," the nurse added in a clearly bored tone of voice. "Don't puke."

They placed the white plate on the floor in the middle of the room. One man left while the other stood at the door with his arms crossed before his chest.

Reid just looked at him, a quizzical expression on his face.

"I have to make sure that you eat it," the nurse explained brusquely.

The profiler sighed and suspiciously eyed the food on the ground. From where he stood, it was hard to tell what they'd brought him for lunch. He stepped closer and kneeled down before the plate, leaning in a bit more.

The young agent couldn't avoid the impression that he was treated like a dog. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, the meal actually looked like dog food. Meat. Some sort of meat was there. And potatoes. No vegetables. Or...?

Reid bent down further. Yes, he mused as he looked closely at his lunch, that might be broccoli.

His stomach clenched painfully. The sight of the food, the smell and the fact that they hadn't even left him a fork, only a plastic spoon...it was all too much. Did they fear he would stab himself with a fork?

He couldn't eat it. Reid knew he couldn't eat it. He hadn't been able to keep his food down at St. Lousianne's. And that had been tasty.

Then again: the idea of being fed through a tube was a nightmare. He couldn't let this happen. He had to show these people that he was alright, that he could eat like a normal person. Well, like a normal person without a fork or a table.

Carefully, Reid brought a piece of potato to his mouth.

He chewed. And swallowed. He really tried.

And failed.

---

In the office of the DC police department Hotch and his team were still trying to figure out how to find Sanders. They'd already come to the conclusion that the young man's delusions and the events of the past days matched too well. It couldn't be a coincidence. Still, they had no evidence. It wasn't enough.

"Did he ever talk about revenge? Payback?" Hotch asked the psychiatrist.

Kuttler shook his head. "He mentioned that he wants to make things right this time. I thought he was referring to this 'Matt'. Christian's thoughts weren't coherent. He jumped from one subject to another. It's really hard to tell in hindsight."

The team leader nodded tiredly. He knew Kuttler wasn't a profiler. The psychiatrist had never been trained to deal with potential criminals. Of course, he hadn't been able to predict what Sanders was going to do.

"Alright," Morgan suddenly exclaimed, rather fed-up with the slow progress of the case. "We know that Sanders wanted to get Reid back. As it seems, he found him. So there are two questions to answer now. First: how did he find Reid? And second..."

"Where is he going to look for him?" Prentiss added thoughtfully.

Hotch looked sharply at her. "Where he found him last time. St. Lousianne's."

---

Dr. Emerson's phone rang. Unfortunately, the psychologist couldn't answer the call. The knife that was pointed at him stopped him from moving around the desk to his cell.

"Shut up!" Christian shouted, the weapon shaking in his hands.

Emerson lifted his arms. "I haven't said anything," he replied calmly.

"The phone! Shut up!" The younger man pressed his free hand against his ear, trying to block out the disturbing sound of the cell.

The psychologist watched the unexpected invader with a worried expression on his face. He wasn't completely sure what this was about. A minute ago, the guy with the knife had just stormed his office and threatened to kill Emerson. The older man hadn't figured out why, yet.

Finally the ringing stopped and Christian seemed to relax a bit.

"Where is he?" he asked impatiently.

"Who?"

"Matt! He's not in his room! I looked, he...he wouldn't go anywhere without telling me...What did you do to him?" The younger man lifted the large knife so it was only inches away from Emerson's throat.

The doctor tried to stay calm. He had been working with the FBI for many years. He knew how to talk his way out of a tricky situation.

"What is your name?" he asked friendly.

A flicker of utter confusion crossed Christian's face. "What...?"

"I'd like to know your name."

"J...Jase," the younger man stammered, slightly lowering the knife. "I need to find Matt! He...he will be scared if I don't go to him."

"Scared? Why?" Emerson continued the inquiry. At least he knew now who this man was. He had to get Aaron here. The police. Someone who had handcuffs.

"I promised...I told him that I come back for him," Christian explained in a small voice. His eyes darted through the room, as if trying to figure out what this place was. "He's waiting for me."

Emerson nodded. "I see. Well, if you're a friend of Matt's, I can take you to him," he said cautiously, a forced smile on his face.

The younger man let the knife drop. "Really?" He stared at the psychologist with big eyes.

"Of course. He's not here today, though. I need to make a phone call and arrange the meeting."

"Alright, alright," Christian said in a rush. He started to scratch his arms. "Just...just hurry. I need to see him. Need him."

"I understand," Emerson replied and moved slowly around the desk. Never taking his eyes off the distraught young man in his office, he dialed Hotch's number.

***

To Gerald Emerson, ten minutes had never felt so long. The psychologist forced himself not to look at his watch. He had to act as casual as possible, as if nothing was wrong – as if there wasn't a psychotic man with a knife in his office. Actually, the weapon was still on the floor. Christian hadn't picked it up again. The confused young man was getting more and more nervous with each minute passing. Still, the knife was too far away for the psychologist to reach without alarming the unwanted guest.

Emerson knew the police would be there any second. The BAU would have needed one hour to get to the sanatorium and that was too long for Hotch's liking. So the senior profiler had alerted a team of policemen who were conveniently nearby.

"What's taking him so long?" Christian asked agitatedly, pacing the doctor's office. The same question he'd asked about twenty times already.

The older man tried to sooth. "He must be here soon." Emerson watched the intruder shake his head angrily. Stalling. That was the key word. "So, when did you visit Matt? I didn't even notice you were there."

Christian turned abruptly towards the man in the suit, a irritated expression on his face. "I...I'm not sure. A few days ago, I think. Matt was tired. I had to go...He understands...yes, he understands..." The last words were only whispered in a rush. The young man kept pacing and fiddling with his hands.

Emerson didn't get the chance to respond because there was a firm knock on the door. Both men quickly turned their heads towards the entrance.

"Is that him?" Christian asked excitedly and rushed to the door. He pulled it open and found himself looking straight into the barrel of a gun.

Glancing into the room, it took the cops only a split second to take in the situation.

"Lift your hands so I can see them!" one of the three police officers shouted at Christian who stood frozen at the door.

When he didn't make any attempt to comply, the policeman demanded again: "Hands up!"

Christian threw a confused glance at Emerson, before slowly raising his arms.

"Where's Matt?" he asked nervously.

There was no reply of course. Instead one of the cops holstered his weapon and moved in to arrest the younger man.

"You alright?" the second officer asked Emerson, carefully putting the knife into an evidence bag.

The psychologist nodded. "We need to take him to Agent Hotchner," he said, assuming that the cops had already been informed.

"I know. We have orders from Detective Jacobs to bring him to the police station."

---

The walls seemed to come closer and closer as the hours went by. Reid didn't know what time it was. No windows, no watch, only bright artificial light and the whiteness of the room he couldn't escape from. The nurse had cleaned up the mess he'd made earlier. Tomorrow, the man had said. If Reid didn't eat before tomorrow they would feed him through a tube. Dinner at six. Another humiliation. There was no way to prevent it from happening.

The young agent moved slowly along the walls of his prison, his hands touching the soft surface. They didn't want him to hurt himself. No personal items were allowed. They wouldn't even permit him to wear his own clothes. White sweatpants and a white shirt. Short sleeves. It was warm, they said. To Reid, the air felt freezing.

He kept pacing the small room and looked down at his damaged arms. They'd seen it, of course. But they hadn't commented on it. As long as he didn't hurt himself under their watch, they couldn't care less. Not their responsibility. Reid brushed his fingers over the scars on his left arm. He couldn't help but wonder what he had become. A wreck. A nervous wreck who couldn't even eat anymore. Someone who cut himself only to feel a tiny bit in control. It was his doing, after all. Letting the blade dance on his arms and legs, increasing the pressure slowly until the skin breaks and the first drops of blood appear. The contrast of the red liquid on his pale body...

It was his decision. Not something someone forced on him. If he wanted it to stop, he had the power to stop it. That was the difference.

At least that was what he kept telling himself.

Almost unconsciously, Reid started to scratch his arms as he walked through the room. When he reached the locked door, he stopped short.

The profiler tentatively placed his palms against the door. There was no handle. No way to open it from the inside. Not without a key.

Reid pressed his hands harder against the white surface. "Let me out," he whispered and rested his forehead against the solid door.

But no-one came. Not a sound from the outside. Only heavy silence engulfing the room.

Slowly, Reid's fists started to hammer against the door. "Please," he whimpered. "Let me out."

Still, there was no response. It dawned on the young agent that not a single person could hear him. Either that, or they didn't care. No-one would open the door.

His fists continued pounding against the door, but the impacts didn't even make a sound. It didn't hurt, no matter how hard he hit the smooth surface.

"Hotch!" he called loudly, although he knew that his boss wasn't there. "Please? Someone!"

Now Reid screamed. "Let me out!"

Erratic breaths escaped his mouth as he abruptly spun around, sliding to the floor with his back pressed against the door.

Reid came to rest on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He didn't cry. He couldn't. He knew that sooner or later someone would come and force him to do things he didn't want to do. Just like...back then.

Suddenly, the young profiler didn't want to be near the door anymore. He slowly crawled back to a far corner, never taking his eyes away from the entrance. He pulled his legs close and wrapped his arms around them. And he waited.

---

The BAU team stood in front of the interrogation room - the same room where Reid had been questioned only a few days earlier. They looked through the big window at the young man sitting with his hands cuffed to the chair. Emerson had come to the police station with the cops and now stood next to Hotch. Gideon and Jacobs were there as well, both silently observing the arrested man.

It was Morgan who broke the silence. "His hair is longer," he simply stated.

Hotch nodded absent-mindedly.

"So this is the guy your agent was rambling about?" Jacobs asked grumpily. He'd been hoping that the case was finally solved, and now this guy showed up and everything was in abeyance again.

"Yes," the team leader said curtly. "That's him."

The detective scratched the back of his head. "That doesn't mean your agent is innocent. There's still the evidence..."

"I know," Hotch replied quickly, cutting the detective off. "We need a confession."

With that, he moved towards the door leading to the interrogation room.

"He's highly delusional, Aaron," Emerson called.

Hotch turned around, his hand already on the door handle.

The psychologist went on: "He thinks he cares about Spencer. Apparently he is sure that Spencer is waiting for him."

The senior profiler frowned. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that he doesn't mean to harm Spencer," Emerson said, taking a step closer to his friend. "Remember that when you talk to him, no matter how angry you are."

Hotch nodded numbly. In fact he wasn't angry, he was furious. He'd seen the tapes. He knew what that kid had done to his subordinate. It was probably because of Sanders that Reid was now locked up in a padded cell. But the unit chief also knew that Emerson was right. Giving vent to his emotions in that interrogation room wouldn't do Reid any good. They needed a confession from Sanders in order to get their youngest teammate free. Everything else, Hotch's own inner turmoil included, would have to wait until later.

Without another word, the senior profiler entered the brightly lit room and sat down on the chair opposite to the restrained man.

Christian looked nervously at the unfriendly looking visitor.

"My name is Aaron Hotchner, I'm with the FBI. Can you tell me your name?" Hotch started the inquiry as usual with an easy question.

The younger man licked his lips. The team leader noticed that Christian looked slightly thinner than on the tapes. He was still of a rather athletic build, but it was apparent that he'd been through a rough time recently. His dark hair was indeed a bit longer. Not as long as Reid's though. Just long enough for him to tuck behind his ears.

"I'm Jase," the younger man replied after a while. "I told the doctor already. I need to see Matt. He's waiting. I won't...I can't stay here."

Hotch tried to put on a slight smile. "Jase...what? What's your last name?"

"I have to go to Matt. You don't understand. It's really important!"

"Alright," the profiler replied. "Tell me about Matt. Is he a friend of yours?"

The cuffs made a clinking sound as Christian tried to rise from his chair. He couldn't stand up, of course, but the sudden movement was enough to alert Hotch.

"I'm not stupid!" the younger man yelled. "You know Matt! I saw you in the hospital!"

The unit chief leaned back in his chair. This wasn't going to be easy. Although Christian seemed to be trapped in a severe delusion, he was obviously very aware of his surroundings.

"Do you know why you are here?" Hotch asked firmly.

"The knife. I...uhm,...the doctor... I shouldn't have threatened him," the young man stammered. "But Matt wasn't in his room anymore! I needed to find him. I thought his doctor would take me to him..."

"Why do you need to find him?"

Christian looked at Hotch as if the older man had just come from another planet. "I love him."

---

The door flung open.

"Dinner," the orderly said harshly.

Reid was still sitting in the corner. He watched the man approach with the dishes. It was another employee. Another shift, he mused.

"I read a note that you didn't eat your lunch," the man with the white robe said, placing the plate on the floor before the young agent.

Reid glanced at the food. Bread, cheese, an apple and water.

He sighed. Maybe he could try the fruit. And water. He definitely needed something to drink.

Again, the orderly remained in the room, observing whether the patient kept his food down or not.

Since there was no knife, Reid couldn't cut the apple in pieces. Carefully, he took a very small bite. The juices of the apple felt really refreshing in his dry mouth. He swallowed and waited. When his stomach didn't protest, he bit off another piece. He chewed slowly, enjoying the sweet taste of the fruit spreading on his tongue.

It was then that the memory hit him. The picture of Tristan Stuart placing a banana on his lap, telling him to eat. And Reid knew he had lost again.

"I'm sorry, I can't..."

He bent over and brought up the small amount of food that had made it into his stomach.

The orderly shook his head and made a note in his file.

"That didn't go too well," the man stated dryly. "I'll inform Dr. Franklin. He has to decide what to do about your vomiting issue."

Reid wiped his mouth and looked miserably at the floor. He knew he had a problem. Quite a few of them, actually. He figured that perhaps Gerald would have been able to help him with that, but here...

These people didn't seem to have any intention to help him. They wanted to keep him alive, but their main task was to keep him locked up - as far away from the real world as possible.

With shaking hands Reid brought the plastic cup with the water to his lips. He had to get rid of the nasty taste of stomach acid in his mouth. The clear liquid helped with the burning feeling in the back of his throat. However, it didn't stop the angry growls of his stomach.

The young agent watched the orderly pick up the plate again. They both knew it would be useless for Reid to try bread and cheese.

The man took the dishes and left the room without cleaning up the remains of the apple. Reid didn't really care at this point. He went back to his corner, trying to melt with the wall behind him.

---

Hotch hadn't made any progress whatsoever.

Regardless of the question asked, Christian just kept repeating how much 'Matt' meant to him and that he had to go to him soon.

When Hotch had realized that this inquiry wouldn't take them anywhere, he'd decided to continue until the young man got tired enough to maybe let down his wall of defense.

Until now, however, that hadn't happened.

"You know what happened to Matt?" he asked eventually. "What they did to him in Vegas?"

Christian stopped his distressed ramblings for a second and stared at Hotch. "Yes."

"And you are not angry at them for what they did? They hurt him, after all. Don't you wanna punish them for that?"

The younger man actually seemed to think about the question for a little while. Hotch already began to hope that he had finally pushed the right button...

"I have to go to Matt now," Christian said thoughtfully. "He must be scared."

Hotch sighed deeply. It was no use. Silently, he got up and left the room.

A team of very exhausted looking profilers were awaiting him outside. He shook his head in defeat.

"He won't talk to me about the murders. I'm not even sure if he's aware of his actions," the team leader stated quietly.

Jacobs rose from a chair in the corner. "Well, perhaps he doesn't talk about the murders because he doesn't know about them. Perhaps he has no idea that your agent..."

"Save your breath!" Morgan interrupted angrily. It was in the middle of the night and he was way too tired to deal with the detective's accusations any longer. "Reid was right about Sanders. The guy was there all the time. It's only logical to assume that Reid's been telling the truth about the killings as well."

"It doesn't help though," Prentiss interjected quickly. "If Sanders doesn't confess the murders, the evidence will still be enough for the jury to convict Reid."

Once again, oppressive silence spread in the office. It was extremely frustrating. They were so close, yet unable to clear their youngest of suspicion.

"Reid should talk to him." Gideon. His words startled everyone out of their daze.

"No," Hotch replied instantly.

"It's the only way."

The team leader shook his head decisively. "It's not an option."

Gideon stepped close to his former co-worker. "Hotch, we have to..."

"No, Jason! I can't force Reid to face this guy again. After what happened..."

"Aaron, I'm sure Spencer would do anything to get free," Emerson said calmly. "If it's the only way to help him, we need to at least try."

Hotch looked at the psychologist, then at Gideon again.

Should he put Reid in the horrible situation of meeting his assaulter again? Would the young profiler be able to handle that? More important: What if Hotch decided against it? What if they kept Reid in prison for good? He wouldn't survive in there for long, the unit chief thought.

Everyone's eyes were glued to the team leader. They watched Aaron Hotchner struggling with himself and they could almost see him making a decision.

He lifted his head and looked Gideon straight in the eyes. "Alright. Let's do it."

---

Reid didn't know for how long he'd been sitting in the corner, when suddenly the lights went out. His head snapped up and his eyes darted through the room in an attempt to make out any detail. The first thing he noticed was the dim light shining in from the hallway through the tiny window of the door.

His gaze then shifted to the small red blinking dots on the ceiling. Cameras.

Had they been there before? Why hadn't he seen them?

No. No. Not again. No...

They were watching him. Watching his every move. Watching him sleeping, dreaming. Certainly they were going to watch him scream when the nightmares would come.

Reid rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, hoping – and fearing – that sleep would come and take him soon.

***

Hotch and Emerson arrived at the Virginia State Hospital for the Criminally Insane very early in the morning. They'd decided to wait until the night was over so everyone could get a few hours of sleep - Reid included. Jacobs had insisted on sending two officers along to escort the young profiler back to the police station.

The four men walked straight to the office of the director. It was almost 7.30 am.

Hotch had been very quiet during the drive. He was still not very fond of the idea to put Reid in the same room with his assaulter. On the other hand, there really didn't seem to be another solution. His subordinate's fingerprints had been found on the murder weapon – the knife he'd held in his hands when they'd found him only a few hundred meters away from the crime scene. Clear and authoritative evidence combined with Reid's fragile mental state would certainly be enough for the jury to convict him.

Emerson must have sensed Hotch's uneasy feelings.

"You're doing the right thing," the psychologist had assured his friend several times since their departure. "We need to get him out. This is the only way."

The senior profiler had merely nodded. He was very well aware that a confession from Sanders was Reid's only chance. Still...there were so many urging questions in Hotch's mind, begging for attention. What if a confrontation with Sanders would break the young man completely? Even if they got a confession...would Reid be able to deal with another traumatic experience? And what if Sanders wasn't the murderer?

Hotch heard Emerson knock against the director's office door, and forced himself to focus on the present again. He'd made the decision. All he could do now was help his agent through this.

"Dr. Emerson?" the man in the suit asked as he opened the door. He held a cup of coffee in his hand and wore a rather confused expression on his face. Apparently he hadn't expected any visitors at this time of day. "What can I do for you?"

It was Hotch who replied. "We need to take Dr. Reid back to the police station for further interrogation," he stated matter-of-factly. "Where is he now?"

The director glanced at his watch. "Probably in the basement. It's shower time." He watched his guests exchange alerted looks. "Should we wait at his cell? It usually doesn't take long," the head of the hospital suggested.

"No," Hotch said quickly. "Let's pick him up down there."

The director led them quietly downstairs and along the corridor to the washrooms. They met a couple of prisoners who were escorted back to their cells. As the men came closer to the showers, they heard an angry voice yelling profanities. Hotch instantly quickened his pace to see what was going on.

The first thing he saw when he entered the huge white tiled shower room was the broad back of a guard who kept cursing at someone.

"Get your skinny ass in gear, freak!" he yelled and bent down to pick up the person who was apparently sitting on the floor.

Hotch was there in a split second. Grabbing the guard's arm from behind, he pulled him back. He then saw Reid sitting naked with his back pressed against the tile wall and his knees drawn tightly to his chest. The water had been turned off, but the floor was still wet from the showering before.

"Get out of here now," the senior profiler harshly told the guard.

The big man irritatedly looked at the director, seeking further instructions. The man in the suit gave him a nod that supported Hotch's words, and left together with his employee.

The unit chief turned around. "Wait outside," he said to the cops.

Meanwhile Emerson had found the pile of blue towels and handed one to Hotch. The team leader crouched down next to his subordinate. Reid had his arms slung around his legs and kept his forehead on his knees. He seemed oblivious to the things happening around him.

Carefully, Hotch covered the young agent with the towel. He had done this before. The memory of himself wrapping the bloodied bed spread around Reid hit him with full force; the sight of the pained expression on his agent's face; the sharp inhale as Hotch had lifted him off the bed; the realization that they'd come too late...

It was all the same.

"Reid?" he asked quietly. "What happened?"

The younger man didn't reply. He just shook his head, still refusing to look his boss in the face.

Hotch tried again. "Did someone hurt you? You can tell me."

Reid slowly lifted his head. Wet strand of hair were stuck to his face. He didn't try to shove the hair back. Instead the young agent grabbed the towel and pressed it tightly against body.

"Spencer, are you hurt?" Emerson crouched down as well and looked worriedly at his patient. Of course, he knew that a communal shower wasn't exactly what the young man needed right now. Since there was no other option at the State Hospital, the psychologist had been hoping against hope that Reid would be able to deal with it. Obviously, the young agent wasn't.

Reid warily glanced at Hotch. "They were watching," he whispered.

The superior bit his bottom lip. "Watching? You mean the guards?"

"Everyone. They wanted...they...they said..."

"What did they say?" Hotch urged gently.

But Reid couldn't express it aloud. The vile words, the remarks that had been made about him. The threats. It wasn't something he could tell Hotch. And there didn't seem to be a point in telling anyway. His team hadn't prevented it from happening. They hadn't been able to spare him the biggest humiliation in his entire life, in Vegas. Nor had they been able to save him from prison. Hotch had promised to help, but deep inside, Reid mused, his boss probably didn't even believe him.

"Why are you here?" he finally asked.

Hotch gave him a concerned look. It made him sad that the young man wouldn't confide in him anymore, but he didn't want to push him.

"We've got him. Christian. He came to Gerald's office. He was looking for you."

Reid stared at his superior. After a long moment, he managed to squeeze out: "You caught him?"

Hotch nodded. "He's at the police station. Unfortunately he won't talk to me. Not about the murders."

The young man's eyes shifted confusedly from his boss to the psychologist. He didn't know what to think of this. There was only one thought that repeatedly flashed through Reid's mind...

He is real. I knew it. He is real...

"Spencer?" Emerson asked when his patient made no attempt to respond. "Did you understand what Aaron said?"

The young agent looked with a blank expression at the doctor. "You want me to talk to him, don't you?"

"We think you're the only one who can get through to him," Hotch explained. "We need a confession, Reid."

Worried by the exhausted looks of his patient, Emerson added quickly: "Of course, it's your decision, Spencer. If you don't want to face him..."

The young profiler cut him off. He knew there was no other option.

"I need my clothes."

The rest of the team had already gathered in front of the interrogation room. Hotch had called Morgan, telling him that they were on their way.

"You sure this is a good idea?" JJ asked anxiously as the cops brought Christian back from the overnight cell.

Morgan crossed his arms before his chest. "Not at all. But it's better than the alternative."

The media liaison watched the policemen cuff the suspect to the chair like the night before. She shook her head. "He looks so young, so...innocent..."

In this moment the door to the office flung open. Hotch and Emerson entered the room, followed by the two cops who guarded Reid.

The young agent glanced nervously at his team members. When he spotted Gideon in the far corner of the room, he let his gaze drop. He felt everyone's eyes on him. They were watching him. Waiting for...what? Should he say something? Did they expect him to smile? To cry?

He heard Hotch talking to Morgan. "Did he say something?" the unit chief asked, gesturing to Christian.

"Not a word."

A long pause.

Finally, Morgan turned to his arrested teammate. "Are you really up to it, Reid?"

But the younger man couldn't hear him. He walked slowly towards the big window, his eyes glued to the man sitting in the interrogation room. He felt his heart beating too fast in his chest. Reid's stomach clenched painfully at the sight of the man who had taught him lessons the young agent would never be able to forget. But somehow it didn't seem to be the same person anymore. Christian looked so young, so confused as his eyes darted through the white room in an attempt to understand the situation.

A hand placed gently on Reid's shoulder startled the profiler out of his thoughts.

"You can do it, Reid."

The voice. That warm and sympathetic tone. The sound of pure affirmation and trust. Gideon.

Reid took his eyes away from Christian and turned to his old mentor.

He swallowed hard as their eyes met.

"Talk to him," Gideon said calmly. "He thinks he cares about you. Use that. Play into his fantasy."

Reid nodded numbly.

"We'll be right behind the mirror," Hotch added. "He can't hurt you. If you think you can't handle the situation, just get out."

The young agent glanced at his assaulter again. He knew what to do – in theory. He wasn't sure, however, if he could actually do it. He felt so weak. Emerson had given him another supplement drink on the drive to the station, but Reid had been way too nervous to drink much of it. After so many days without proper nourishment his limbs felt wobbly and his brain seemed to be in a permanent state of dizziness.

Nonetheless he was determined to put this absurd situation to an end now.

"Okay," he said quietly.

Hotch gave him a final reassuring nod and led him to the door – the only thing that separated him from Christian. Reid put his hand on the door handle. He drew a deep breath, then entered the room without hesitation.

The young man on the chair stared at him with wide eyes. "Matt!" he exclaimed. A broad smile spread on his face. "Finally!"

From the outside the others watched the awkward 'reunion'.

"I don't think he can do it," Hotch murmured through gritted teeth.

Gideon stood right beside his former co-worker. "He's a profiler. He knows what to do," the older man said soothingly. "Have a little faith."

Reid forced himself to put on a fake smile. Very slowly, he approached Christian and sat down on the chair on the other side of the table.

"Hello," he said meekly, trying to hold eye contact with his assaulter.

"I'm so glad you're here," Christian replied. "I came to the hospital, but you weren't there..."

"Yes, they...uhm, they took me somewhere else." The profiler wasn't sure yet how bad the other man's delusions were. He didn't know how much he should reveal and what he should keep to himself. He decided to take it slowly.

"Thank you for visiting me at the clinic," he started in a friendly tone. "That...that meant a lot to me."

If possible, the smile on Christian's face brightened even more. "I know. I couldn't stand not seeing you anymore. I was so worried..."

"Worried?"

"Yes, you looked so ill and..." Christian paused. For a second he let his gaze drop to his lap. After a short moment, he lifted his head again. "And I felt so guilty."

Reid felt hope rising. Could he perhaps get the confession much easier than expected?

"Guilty?" he repeated. "Why guilty?"

"For what I did. You know...in Vegas. I knew you weren't ready. But they wanted me to...and...and I thought you started to like it..."

The young agent wanted to shout at the other man. He wanted to yell at him and tell him to shut up. But Reid knew the others were watching – and listening, and he couldn't blow this chance. If he lost it now, he'd probably never get another opportunity to prove his innocence.

"Don't worry about that," he said very quietly, knowing that the others would hear his words nonetheless. "I...it was okay."

Christian looked at him with watery eyes. "I missed you," he admitted warmly. "I missed your touch and I...I felt so alone."

Reid bit his lip. This wasn't the person he'd met in Vegas. This man was sick and broken. A victim himself.

Christian spoke again.

"Could you...please, touch me?"

Reid stared at him.

"Just...I just...," the cuffed man trailed off and closed his eyes.

The young profiler saw a tear running down Christian's face. He was at a loss. What was he supposed to do? The others were watching, expecting him to do the right thing. But what was the right thing?

From the other side of the mirror Reid's co-workers saw their youngest teammate stand up and move around the table.

"What's he doing?" Hotch asked. He was instantly alerted. Reid shouldn't get too close to a potential murder.

Everyone held their breath as Reid reached out and put his shaking hand on Christian's cheek, stroking it softly.

"Oh my god," Prentiss exclaimed. She was terrified on the one hand, but also amazed that the young genius managed to do that after all that had happened.

"We should stop this," Hotch hissed, but Gideon prevented him from storming into the interrogation room.

"Give him a chance," he demanded evenly.

At the touch of Reid's hand on his face, Christian's eyes snapped open. The smile returned and he tilted his head to intensify the contact.

After a few seconds that felt like a century to Reid, the profiler withdrew his hand. He leaned down, so both men's faces were on the same level.

"You shouldn't have killed these men," he said firmly.

Christian didn't reply, but turned his head away.

"It wasn't the right thing to do," Reid pressed.

Still, the other man refused to respond.

But the young agent had one last ace up his sleeve. "They put me in prison, Jase," he said and walked back to his own chair. He sat down and looked his opponent straight in the eyes. "They're hurting me in there."

The strategy seemed to work. The smile on Christian's face faded. "I'm sorry," he said eventually.

"That's not enough."

"I did it for you, Matt!" And the tears once again started to run down his cheek.

"I never asked you to do it," Reid replied, sounding more agitated.

Christian raised his voice as well. "They were bastards! Rapists! They wanted to hurt you!"

"You didn't have the right to kill them, Jase," the profiler shot back. He knew he had the confession already. He could just stand up and leave the room, but there were a few things that needed to be said. "Killing them won't make things undone."

"But...but I thought...I did it for you!" Christian said again. There was an expression of utter confusion on his face. Confusion and pain. "I'm sorry."

Reid closed his eyes for a brief moment. He wondered why everything had to be so messed up.

"I know."

"I love you, Matt."

The agent couldn't reply. That last statement seemed to suck all remaining energy out of him. He needed to get out.

Reid rose from his chair and moved to the door on shaky legs.

Behind him he faintly heard the other man calling for him, desperation in his voice. However, there was nothing more Reid could do.

He opened the door and stepped out. He could see his team members waiting for him. There were different emotions flickering across their faces. Worry, as usual. But also relief and maybe...pride?

Reid didn't get the chance to properly analyze their reactions. His vision became more blurred with each second passing and his limbs had gone completely numb.

He placed a hand against the door frame, trying to support himself, but it was no use.

His legs gave way and just in time before he hit the floor Reid felt strong arms catching him. Then everything went black.

***

A white room.

Or...it's not really a room. Just pure whiteness all around me, hurting my eyes with its brightness. I turn and look but there is nothing, not even air. I try to take a breath, but I can't feel my lungs working. I listen. Not a sound. Is my heart beating? I focus on my body, seeking a sign that I'm still alive. Am I dead? Is this what happens? I can't remember how I got here. I'm still thinking, somehow, but the nothingness around me is now in my brain as well. No memories, no faces, no facts, not even pain.

And I think that maybe death is not that bad.

-o-o-o-o-

"Get the paramedics here!" Aaron Hotchner shouted. Just in time he'd caught Reid. He had seen it coming. The gray color on his subordinate's sweaty face; the young man's hand on the door frame right before his legs had given way. In an instant, Hotch had been there and carefully lowered Reid to the floor.

After the initial shock, everyone had stepped into action.

JJ called the paramedics while Morgan and Emerson knelt down next to Reid's motionless body.

"He's breathing," Hotch stated with relief and checked the pulse on his agent's neck. "It's weak, but steady."

"He collapsed. It was only a matter of time," Emerson said bitterly. "We need to get him to the hospital."

The team leader opened the top buttons of Reid's shirt and placed his hand gently against the younger man's cheek.

"Reid? Come on, open your eyes."

There was no reaction.

Morgan shook his friend's shoulder. "Come on, kid!" he urged.

It was then that the door behind the men opened.

"Matt?"

Christian tried to tear himself away from cops who wanted to lead him back to his cell.

"Matt! What happened? What did you do to him?" the young man yelled. "Matt!"

For a very short moment Hotch shifted his focus away from Reid to look at Christian.

"Get him out of here!" he ordered firmly. That guy was the last person he wanted to see around Reid.

"Matt! I'm sorry! Matt?" Christian shouted as he was led away from the office.

His voice faded and the three men concentrated on the unconscious agent on the floor again.

"Where the hell are the medics?" Morgan asked agitatedly. He threw an impatient look at JJ, but the media liaison could only shrug helplessly.

"They should be here any minute," she said meekly.

As if on cue the door flung open and two paramedics stormed inside.

Gideon watched from a distance how they checked Reid's vital functions and put him quickly on the stretcher.

There was only one person allowed to accompany the young man on the ambulance. There was no need to discuss that decision. Of course, it was the unit chief who stayed with Reid during the drive to the hospital. The others agreed to follow in their SUVs.

Morgan grabbed the keys and gave Gideon a meaningful look. "Let's go."

-o-o-o-o-

I try to walk, to move on in this seemingly endless white fog. I can't feel my feet. I can't feel anything at all. I look down to see if my hands are still there – just to assure myself that I'm not a ghost. But I can't see them. I look down and there is...nothing.

"Hey."

The sudden voice startles me. I can't tell where it came from. I turn around. There's no one there.

"Why are you hiding?" the voice asks me. I know the voice. It's...I can't remember the name. But I heard the voice before. Before – before what? I wonder if there has ever been something else. It feels like I've been here in this perfect whiteness forever. It seems so right. Like I'm floating, weightless, mindless, careless...

"You don't have to hide," the voice says again and I can't ignore it anymore.

Am I even able to speak?

"Who are you?" I ask – or perhaps I just think the question.

Soft laughter. Then the voice is gone.

And the whiteness turns into a shade of gray.

-o-o-o-o-

For 30 minutes the medics had worked on Reid. His team members stood in the hallway of the emergency room and could only watch through a big window.

"What's taking them so long?" Morgan asked worriedly.

"It hasn't been that long," Hotch replied evenly. He knew what his colleague meant though. Time went by extremely slow as they had to watch the medics touch and probe and stick needles into their young friend's arm. It was dreadful to just stand there, unable to help Reid.

Morgan snorted dismissively, causing Prentiss to lay a calming hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sure he'll be just fine once he got some rest. It was just too much for him," she said reassuringly.

Her co-worker didn't reply. Morgan had serious doubts that Reid was going to 'be just fine'. Even a physically and mentally healthy person would have trouble coping with all the crap that had happened in the past few days. How was Reid supposed to make it?

Finally the attending physician left the room and approached the group that was anxiously staring at the young patient.

"How is he?" Hotch asked immediately, a worried expression on his face.

The doctor sighed and turned to the black haired man who seemed to be in charge.

"Are you family?"

Hotch glared at him. "I'm his superior. He was on-duty when he broke down." That wasn't exactly true, but the unit chief had no nerves for a debate with the physician.

"I understand," the man in the white robe said. "Well, he suffered a circulatory collapse. That can be caused by many things, such as stress, hypoglycemia or dehydration."

The others nodded. No surprise there.

"Is he gonna be alright?" Morgan asked the most urgent question.

The doctor gave him a slight smile. "I think so. We give him saline solution to increase the blood volume and to compensate the lack of fluids in his system. He should wake up soon. However," the physician added earnestly. "...we need to wait for the results of the blood tests."

-o-o-o-o-

Something is happening. I don't know what it is and I'm scared. It is safe here. There are no walls, no ground, no ceiling, no limits at all. I could go anywhere. But then again, there is nowhere to go. The whiteness is gone, replaced by a light gray and I wonder what it means.

"They are calling you."

There it is again – the voice. It sounds different though, almost...sad.

"Who are you?" I ask and expect to be laughed at again by the owner of the voice. But it doesn't happen.

Instead there is a long moment of silence. I think he's gone again, but I'm wrong.

"I have to leave you for a while," he says.

Everyone does, I think - or perhaps I say it aloud.

"Not everyone," the painfully familiar voice tells me. "I have to go, but that doesn't matter."

And now the gray fog around me becomes darker. Suddenly I feel a sharp pain and a flood of memories crashing down on me. My mind is screaming and I call him: "Jase!"

But he is gone and something is pulling at me, tearing, shouting.

I can see how the gray turns to black. And just when I think it can't get any darker, the fog begins to dissolve and I want the whiteness back.

-o-o-o-o-

Gideon and Emerson sat in the small hospital room. Reid had been transferred there from the ER to get some real rest. The doctors told them not to crowd the young man. Therefore, the team had stayed downstairs, waiting for news about their friend's state.

The two men had been sitting in silence for almost an hour. Every now and again a slight sigh would escape Reid's lips. Apart from that, his condition hadn't changed. He just lay there seemingly oblivious to his surroundings.

The door then opened and Hotch quietly stepped in.

"I called Jacobs. He talked with Sanders again," the unit chief said. "He repeated his confession. He also admitted to the murder of the last victim. Reid's clear of suspicion."

"That's good," Emerson replied with obvious relief.

Hotch moved closer to Reid's bed. He looked at his young agent for a while, and then shook his head. "There are still so many questions left."

"It doesn't matter now," Gideon said calmly.

The team leader glanced at him. "Doesn't it? We still don't know what happened on the roof. Apparently, Sanders wasn't there. Reid must have been hallucinating..."

"He's been under a lot of pressure," Emerson replied reasonably. "He hasn't eaten in days and he was stressed out after the interrogation. It was too much."

"Let's just hope he wakes up soon," Gideon said, trying to keep his voice down.

Hotch rubbed his forehead. "And then? He needs help. We can't, I mean...I don't think..."

"Spencer needs to go back to the clinic," the psychologist continued decisively. "He has issues that need to be resolved."

"You can't send him back there," Gideon instantly shot back. "That place didn't exactly work in his favor."

Emerson stood up. "He needs professional help."

Gideon didn't agree. "He needs a break."

Hotch had no idea what Reid needed. So far nothing they had done had been helpful for Reid's recovery. Actually, his condition had gotten worse with each day. So what was the right thing to do now?

The three men went silent for a long moment.

"You know," Gideon finally began. "I could take him with me for a little while."

Hotch and Emerson stared at him.

The retired profiler explained: "I have a little cabin at the ocean. California. It's nothing special, but..."

The unit chief interrupted. "Running away is not always a solution, Jason."

The statement was meant to be hurtful, and it did the trick. Gideon winced, but then a self-depreciating smile spread on his face.

"I know. I just think it would give him a chance to heal. Distance, some peace and quiet..."

Emerson shook his head. "Spencer needs medical attention. He's sick."

"He's traumatized, yes," Gideon replied. "But he's not psychotic."

Hotch nodded. "That's right. I think we should let him make this decision."

-o-o-o-o-

There are voices. Other voices, older, familiar somehow. Are they talking to me? I can't tell. The darkness is still around me, making it impossible to see.

The pain is still there as well, something creeping through my veins, something that shouldn't be there. But I can't do anything to stop it. I wish I could back to that state of obliviousness, to that never-ending whiteness, but I have an idea that it is gone for good.

Even the darkness seems to leave me. The fog is becoming thinner and the voices louder, and I can almost understand what they are saying. I hear single words, torn phrases; I recognize the tone of voice...

"...take him with me..."

I know who is speaking. A memory, wonderful and devastating at once, comes to my mind. And I think that maybe it is time to open my eyes.

-o-o-o-o-

It was a long flight from Virginia to California.

Reid sat by the window. He hadn't said a word since they'd left the hospital. He'd spent a few days there to gain some strength. Hotch had told him about Christian's solid confession. The young agent had been glad, of course, but he hadn't been able to actually show any emotions. Emerson had tried to convince him to go back to St. Lousianne's. However, Reid had already decided to accept Gideon's offer – for several reasons. On the one hand, he needed to gain some distance to his friends. As hard as it was, he couldn't stand the thought of being around them. He knew Hotch and Morgan had witnessed his darkest hour back in Vegas. They had also watched him standing on the edge of a roof, they had visited him in prison, they had seen him showering.

Even now, after the case had been solved, they kept looking at him with that horrible worry in their eyes. Sympathy, pity, loathing...Reid didn't know what exactly it was, but it made him sick.

The others hadn't really tried to hold him back. He could tell that they weren't happy about his decision, but no one seemed to be willing to discuss it with him. He had a feeling that his team members had trouble even looking him in the eye. That was exactly the reason why he had to go as far away as possible.

A cabin at the Pacific Coast appeared to be far enough for the time being.

Gideon kept throwing nervous glances at the man who sat beside him on the plane. He knew that taking Reid with him went hand in hand with a huge responsibility. If something went wrong, everyone would blame him. He would blame himself as well, of course. But he was determined not to let it go that far. He was determined to help his young friend for a change.

Right now the most helpful thing he could do was not push Reid.

They arrived at the cabin in the late evening. The sun was setting and bathed the small cottage in a beautiful orange light.

"Here we are," Gideon announced as they entered his wooden refuge.

Reid gave him a timid smile.

"I'm gonna make dinner," the older man said, and started to put the necessary items on the kitchen counter.

"I'm not hungry," the young doctor replied.

Gideon smiled and countered lightly: "Well, I am. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime. It won't take long."

Reid dragged his bag to the small spare room. "I, uhm, I'd like to shower if that's okay..." he said cautiously.

"Sure. Take your time."

The young profiler closed the bathroom door behind him, exhaling heavily. After so many hours on the plane he was in dire need of a shower. He stepped into the small cubicle and turned on the hot water.

He'd missed the stinging feeling on his skin. It felt so right to just let the hot stream wash all the filth off him. And no one was watching. He was alone...

...but not entirely alone.

As Reid washed his long hair, he could feel a soft hand stroke tentatively over his chest. Alarming, yet soothing. It was such a weird feeling.

He shivered under the touch.

"Shhh."

The young agent could hear the calming sounds from behind, he could feel the touch. He could all but see the person.

"You're not here," he said.

"Yes, I am. I always will be."

Reid closed his eyes and continued rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. The smell of the food Gideon was preparing had reached the bathroom. And it was so good. The profiler's stomach growled angrily. He'd eaten very small amounts at the clinic. Mostly he'd just drunk liquid supplements. They hadn't been tasty, but at least they hadn't triggered any bad memories.

He turned off the water and put on clean clothes. Brown cords, a gray sweater. Hesitantly, he left the bathroom to join his old mentor in the kitchen.

Reid was still in the short hallway when he heard a loud clinking noise, followed by a muffled curse. He walked quickly to the kitchen. As he stepped over the threshold, he saw Gideon kneeling on the floor, picking up the shards of a white plate.

The young agent instinctively knelt down as well.

"I'm sorry," Gideon murmured under his breath.

Reid frowned. "Can happen."

"No...I mean...I'm sorry."

The young agent let the shards drop again and sat back on the floor. He didn't feel ready for this, but he assumed that there was no escape anymore.

"You don't have to say this," he replied quietly.

Gideon shook his head. Of course, he had to say it. He should have said it a long time ago.

If I hadn't left the Bureau...

If I hadn't called him to the club that night...

If I hadn't brought him to the FBI in the first place...

If I...

"I'm sorry," he said again, more forcefully this time. "I know it's futile, but...you need to know that I never wanted you to go through this. If I could switch places..."

"Gideon, don't," Reid cut him short. "I know..." He swallowed. "I know you didn't mean to put me in danger. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"He's still here. Jase...Christian...I can't..."

"You know he can't be here," Gideon said evenly.

"Not in person, no, but he's in my head. He...what he stands for."

The older man understood. Sanders had become a living symbol for Reid's ordeal.

"He will go away eventually. You can make it, Reid. You did it once, with Hankel. You can do it again."

The young agent let his gaze drop to the floor. It wasn't the same. The images of the room, the man, the hours of screaming and begging until finally Hotch and Morgan had come to stop it.

"I never did that before," he whispered.

Gideon closed his eyes for a brief moment. He hadn't even thought about this aspect. That Reid had never...

A sizzling sound startled both men. They look at the stove. The soup had boiled over.

"I think dinner is ready," Gideon commented dryly. He quickly stood up and saved the rest of the creamy hot liquid.

They sat down at the table, each of them staring at their deliciously smelling meal.

"I don't think..." Reid began in a small voice.

"It's just a soup," Gideon said quickly. "With mushrooms. You like mushrooms."

The younger man drew a deep shivering breath. "I'm hungry," he admitted barely audibly.

"I know."

Very slowly, almost anxiously, Reid brought the spoon to his mouth.

Gideon watched him swallow the soup and waited for a reaction.

The genius also waited for his body to react. When nothing happened, he took another spoonful.

"And?" the older man asked cautiously.

A genuine smile spread on Reid's face. "I think it's good."

They ate in silence and went to bed early. They were both pretty beat from the long flight.

-o-o-

As Reid lay in the bed on his back, staring into space, he could once again hear his tormentor say things he had no right to say.

You liked it, Matt. I know you love me too...

And he could once again feel the hands touch him in places they had no right to.

You like that? You'll get more then...

All those memories, pictures and noises in his head – suppressed for so long, yet never really erased. What was a dream and what was real? Did it even matter?

Reid shifted his focus on the past; on all the times he'd walked through the streets of DC, when he had brought a bit of justice back into this world that had taken everything away from him.

He then thought of Jase, and what the bastard had surprisingly done for him in that interrogation room.

Reid closed his eyes and whispered, "Thank you."

THE END

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