Note: This was originally posted on MoreHeatThanAche's profile (it's since been taken down) and because I loved the story so much and she wasn't writing it anymore she, along with her co-writers, agreed to let me continue it. The first 5 chapters are revises of the original works, the rest after that is my own creation. I was allowed to change the title but I couldn't bring myself to do it because that wasn't fair. I hope you like what I do with it and yeah, yay!


(Breathe)

(It's hard to breathe)

(Just keep breathing)

(My chest feels tight)

(Don't worry, you'll be just fine)

Slowly almost timidly Spencer Reid opened his eyes, only to close them a second later as a bright overhead light shone down on him. His head throbbed painfully as he tried to form the memories he so desperately needed. They weren't coming though, instead all he could think about was the throbbing in his temples and how exceedingly dry his mouth had become. Blinking slightly, Spencer became awake of the plastic tube that stopped his left arm from moving freely. Panicking, his eyes growing wide before squeezing them shut again as though to erase the image.

No memories of what had happened to him were coming to mind, no recollection of any events. Nothing. For the first time in his life, his mind was a blank canvas which both confused and scared him. Almost painfully he tried to get his brain in motion; it was slow and sluggish, much like a machine that hadn't been used in sometime and needed a good dose oil. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, far from it, it was a sticky feeling that he willed away.

What did he know? That was the next thing he tried to figure out. He was lying down, a bed with crisp white sheets. Grasping them slightly in his hands. Starched, thick, cotton sheets; a hospital most likely. The drip in his arm suggested he was ill. Spencer certainly felt ill, other than the headache his bones also felt heavy, like they were being weighed down with something. His muscles ached as though he had just done several hours running uphill. Tentatively opening his eyes again, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the glaring light, he scanned the room quickly. White with a cold feeling. Empty except for the bed, a single chair in the corner and a bedside table with a plastic cup. The only sourced of colour was the red straw protruding from the cup.

Where where his things. Books? If there was one thing Spencer was never without, it was a book. The light from the window (plastic, not glass no doubt) suggested it was early morning, but what time of year was it. Month, day, week, minute, second. Anything would suffice to Spencer to give him some indication that this wasn't some bizarre dream. It sure felt like it, like everything had suddenly rushed at him. Again studying the window, he couldn't see anything out of it. Just sky, a clear blue sky. Possible early summer then. Why couldn't he remember. Everything was quiet, no birds, no traffic. Just silence, it was both peaceful and oddly strange at the same time. Life, it was never this quiet. Never.

Lying still, Spencer let out a long shallow breath. Everything was fuzzy, strange and confusing to the point that it made him want to cry. Never had any situation he'd be in made him feel like that, so overwhelmed by a sense of bewilderment that it terrified him. It was never like this before; he was Spencer Reid, genius mind of the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit. It just didn't make sense. Closing his eyes again, Spencer willed himself to wake up. To force his mind into waking him up from what could only be called a dream, none of it would be real. He'd open his eyes in a moments, safe inside his apartment. It didn't happen though, he didn't wake up. He jumped slightly when the door to his room clicked open softly. Spencer glanced wearily at the nurse who entered the room.

"Hello Spencer," the nurse said. "Nice to see you awake. We all thought you'd never wake up."

Nice. Such a bland, meaningless word, used when nothing else could come to mind. Even in his foggy minded state, Spencer could tell that the nurse, despite putting on a well crafted façade, probably couldn't care less about his well being or anybody else's who happened to be in the building. It was all part of the job she was entitled to do, be nice and helpful. Spencer inwardly frowned at her, there was something odd and somewhat vaguely familiar about her, but he couldn't remember.

"How you feeling? Headache?" it was more of an observation rather than a question.

"Yes," he whispered.

His voice sounded hoarse and dry as though it hadn't been used in a long time. His throat was sore, something he had just realised, and his mouth was dry. His lips were cracked, his tongue dry, so much so it stuck to the roof of his mouth in an uncomfortable way.

"Water?"

Again, it wasn't so much as a question rather than an obvious observation of Spencer's own increasing discomfort. The plastic cup appeared close to his mouth, of which Spencer took a long, almost thankful, drink of. However, it was taken away before he was finished. He frowned up at the nurse who continued to wear a falsely cheery smile.

"Not too much dear, we don't want you getting sick on us. You're still recovering from the anesthetic," the nurse said softly setting the cup down on the bedside table.

Anesthetic? This was new news to Spencer. Anaesthetic usually meant some form of operation or procedure. Carefully trying to get his arms to work, he did a quick scan of his body, no stitching could be found on the places he could feel. Nothing was itching and/or uncomfortable. So why the anaesthetic?

Frowning slightly and trying to make sense of it, Spencer let his arms fall back to his sides, he glanced at his hands quickly. There were healing puncture wounds on the back of it, small scabs and scars along the lines of veins where previous drips had been inserted into his hand. Looking up his arm he noted fresh cotton wool buds in the crease of his elbow, stuck on with surgical tape; a recent blood test most likely? How long had he been ill for? Was he really ill and why couldn't he remember.

Again the sound of the door clicking open entered the silent room, there were more voices. Another doctor most likely. Closing his eyes again, Spencer tried to work out what the conversation was about. Him, most likely, but it was rude to talk about somebody (semi-conscious or not) when they were right in front of you because even in mild delirium he could still hear some words. The closed state of his eyes, however, had caused a wave of tiredness to cascade over him and all he could hear were short snippets of words such as 'still drowsy' and 'headaches'. Sighing quietly, Spencer gave into the impending darkness and let its heavy grasp take him. In strange moments of consciousness, he was barely aware of being wheeled down a corridor, the overhead lights hurt his eyes.

There was a soothing voice and then he felt cold, as though ice was being rubbed up his right arm. All the words being said to him became a mass of crossing prattling and an oxygen mask was placed over his face, somebody was holding his free hand as coldness continued to spread up his right arm as slid back into oblivion almost thankfully this time.

(Why is everything so bright)

(It's not, just go to sleep dear)

(Why am I here?)

(All in good time, all in good time)