Summary: Everyone thinks that Reid is a genius. Reid's cat thinks he's an idiot. Follow the adventures of Schrödie the cat as he attempts to cat-train his human. Remember, the best laid plans of cats and men often go awry... Domestic fic. Follows 'Animals Your Soul Will Guide.'

Genre: Family/Hurt/Comfort

Setting: Early Season 9

Musical Inspiration: "Bears," by Sam Isaacs

I confess. I couldn't figure out a way to write this from Schrödie's perspective, but I really wanted to include it. The last section of the first chapter grabbed me by the ankle and forced me to write this chapter, so we've officially broken the wall into H/C. Apologies. (But not really. :D).

His ears were ringing.

He was lying face down on the floor of his apartment. A cat - his cat - was staring at him, and his ears were ringing.

How did that happen?

A pair of wide, slitted amber eyes stared intently into his, apparently as confused as he was. Schrödie's ears lay flat against his head, mackerel gray tail tucked tightly against white-socked paws. Fear, some distant part of Reid's brain recognized. No wonder Schrödie was scared, what with the mail strewn across the floor and his owner napping on the ground in front of him.

Then, the ringing in his ears was drowned out by the pounding of his pulse and the breathtaking sensation that he'd been struck in the face with a hammer.

He attempted to draw in air to fuel a moan, but something was jabbing into his ribs. Lying awkwardly on his front with his legs sprawled gracelessly beneath, his beloved messenger bag jutted into his stomach and prevented him from taking a full breath.

How had he gotten on the floor in the first place?

Mustering his strength, Reid clumsily slid his arms back until his hands were parallel with his shoulders, palms flat on the ground. He counted to three before pushing off the floor.

Then his right hand slipped in something wet and he went down hard, the left side of his face bouncing off the wood.

A stellar explosion stole his vision, captivated as he was by the magnificent display of light and colors yet unobserved by man. Galaxies were birthed, aged, and died on the back of his eyelids.

Reid hadn't the breath to mourn their passing, to cry out in shock. He hadn't been in this much pain since the last time he'd been shot.

He hadn't been shot again, had he?

One would think that he would remember something like that. The gap in his eidetic memory was a little disturbing. Detective Agent Dr. Reid would have to put on his deerstalker and figure out what happened.

Instead, he coughed. When his vision returned he wondered when Schrödie had teleported to the other side of the room. The gray striped tabby lay cowering under the piano, eyes two distant golden specks.

Reid's forehead was wet.

Sluggishly, he brought a hand to his scalp. It came away red, like the pool in front of him that had lost him his grip.

Oh. Well, that would explain some things.

Reid turned over on his back, waves of pain radiating from his forehead. His IQ of 187 told him the puddle of red on the ground in front of him probably wasn't a good sign, but the dull haze of shock kept him from getting too worried about it.

He took a deep breath and sighed. Was that water damage on the ceiling? It had better not be, not with the rent he was paying.

Sitting up on his elbows, Reid let his chin fall to his chest for a moment to stop the room from spinning. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as blood traced its way down the right side of his face.

Right. He should probably deal with that.

Too dizzy to find his feet, he fumbled with the zipper on his messenger bag, fighting until it surrendered his cell phone.

Something was definitely wronger than he thought. His movements were clumsy, distant. His hands cooperated reluctantly, as though he only controlled his arms up to the wrist. The phone slipped from his loose grip and clattered to the ground.

Traitor.

He tried a second time, swaying slightly as he leaned over to unlock the phone with his dry hand. The screen illuminated his darkened apartment, the only source of light besides the corner lamp he must have hastily switched on after entering and sometime before dropping the mail. The display read 3:35 AM.

Reid wondered distantly how long he'd been on the floor and swiped at the touchscreen again.

Even concussed and bleeding, he remembered Morgan's number.

Morgan would know. Morgan would help.

...that is, if he would pick up his phone.

A frustrated groan escaped his throat. He hit redial and found a handkerchief in his bag, pressing it to his forehead to stem the flow.

Dialing.

Dialing.

"You've reached Derek Morgan. Sorry I missed your call..."

Reid swore.

He was dialing Hotch when he remembered through a cloud of confusion that at some point during the case, his boss's phone wound up in a lake. The call went straight to voicemail.

He made another exasperated sound, folding the cloth over on itself and knuckling it against his scalp as he dialed Morgan for the third time. A lightning bolt struck his temple, crackled through his jaw and shot down to his toes. He might have hissed. He might have started yodelling, for all he could hear at the moment.

Then the pain receded and he could focus again.

Just in time to hear a familiar voice grumbling up at him from the phone.

"-eid? Are you there?"

He blinked in surprise, leaning over on his elbow to address the device on the ground. "Heyyy, it's Morgan. Morr-gannnnn. More-gun.. Wow, I never thoughta that." He let out a distant, hysterical laugh, distracted.

A heavy sigh. "This had better be good, kid."

Reid cleared his throat. "Uhh-hhh, I kinda need s'me help." His words were slurring together, but at this point he was focusing on staying upright. Annunciation could take the back seat.

Irritation from broken sleep bled into Morgan's tone. "Meaning what exactly?"

"We-ell, I'm in a bitta trouble and basic'lly I jus' need a ride is all. Think Schrödinger's in on it, but 'm not... Not sure how." Reid replied sheepishly. He would have scratched his head in embarrassment, but that would mean dropping the cloth holding his brains in. Which would be bad.

In the background, he could hear a sleepy feminine voice. That caused his brow to wrinkle, which caused the cloth on his forehead to dampen further. Was he talking to a woman right now? He wished she would come closer to the phone. Then he heard Morgan addressing her and the distinct sound of a closing door.

"The guy with the cat and the box? Reid, are you drunk?"

Right! Morgan was on the phone. He straightened, ignoring the tremble in the elbow propping him up. "Morgan! No no, I'm not drunk. I didn't even... well, I dunno, I mighta been drinking.. I don't really... can' really think right now. It's wei-eird."

Another sigh. This one sounded less patient. "After a case like that, I get it. It's whatever. Do what you have to do. But trust me, it's not gonna help."

Reid frowned further, which caused his head to hurt even more. His words began to run together in his effort to be understood. "S'not that. M'rgan, 'm not drunk. Promise. I jus' needa ride."

"Listen, kid, how you deal with this job is your business. For tonight, though, call a cab. We'll talk in the morning."

And then he was protesting to no one as the line went dead.

"Morgan. More gunnnn." He swore again, sliding back to the floor as a wave of dizziness crashed over him.

Welp.

That left one other option.

"911, what's your emergency?"

He gave his name, address, and callback number to the tiny glowy screen in his phone. "'m not sure what happened... I woke up on the floor and my head won' stop bleeding. I think I fell?"

A clear female voice responded, much more helpful than Morgan or the voicemail lady. "Mr. Reid, do you know how long you were unconscious?"

"It's Dr. Reid." He corrected distantly, lying back down before he fell down. "But not the kind that helps people. 'Cept when I do. An' sometimes I don't." That thought made him sad for some reason.

The phone lady seemed to understand, or if she didn't, she didn't comment. "Listen to me, Dr. Reid. Can you tell me how long you were unconscious?"

"Somewher' between one to two.. Maybe two an' a half hours? 'm not sure. You could ask Schrödie, but he's not good for conversation." He replied, watching as a cozy darkness began creeping in at the edges of his vision.

"Is there someone with you, Dr. Reid? May I speak with him or her?"

"Just a cat. Crazy people talk to cats. I don' recommend it." The darkness crept in further.

"I've dispatched an ambulance. Help is on the way." The operator said in a soothing voice.

Reid almost smiled. He always met the nicest women over the phone. "Oh, good. Tell them to look for the guy passing out on the floor."

Then, black.

"Hey, Hotch."

"Reid, what's going on? You're an hour late already. Is everything alright?"

"Sorry about that. I actually won't be coming in this morning. I've got a crazy headache; I won't be much use to you today."

Reid glanced at the mirror in his bathroom morosely. His head was wrapped in bandages that masked seventeen stitches in his scalp.

Genuine surprise on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry to hear that. I would've liked to have known earlier, but it looks like a quiet day so far. We'll manage."

"Yeah, I tried to get you on your cell, but that wasn't really an option." Half-formed sentences traffic jammed his throat as he tried to think of how to communicate his doctor's orders.

"Right. That's another thing on the list. Well, I'll let you know if a case comes in. See you in the morning."

The line went dead before Reid figured out how to explain the situation. He put his phone on the table, checking to make sure his alarm was set, and laid down on the sofa to resume his audiobook.

A curious Schrödie padded his way along the back of the sofa and climbed down to rest on Reid's stomach. Long fingers reached out automatically to stroke the mackerel tabby's fur.

"Hey, 'roomie.' You're gonna take good care of me, right?" Reid asked distantly, hyperaware that he was talking to himself, but willing to excuse it at the moment.

Schrödie blinked slowly in his direction, purring at the contact.

He couldn't help but smile. "I'll take that as a yes."

Reid found himself by the phone the next morning after his six AM cognitive self-evaluation, calling Hotch's work number to catch the voicemail before the man got into the office.

Success!

"Hotch, it's me. Uh, you remember that headache I told you about yesterday? Well, I saw a doctor about it and it's kind of a serious thing. Basically I've got a Grade III concussion and can't come in for a couple of days. So... give me a call. Bye." He hung up and slumped against the kitchen counter, all but expecting his phone to come to life and bite his head off.

Maybe leaving a message wasn't the best way to break the news, but he didn't know how else to explain that he'd knocked himself out tripping over a cat the team didn't know he had.

Or how to bring up the fact that he was under doctor's orders not to read or do any activity that would provoke strong cognitive activity for the next five days. Like for example, his job.

The coffeepot sat on the counter, beckoning seductively. He glanced over and looked away. Not now. Not if he wanted some later.

He plopped down on the sofa once more. Despite the fact that he'd slept for the past thirteen hours, he was exhausted. Maybe a nap would help.

BANG BANG BANG!

Startled awake by someone attempting to break down his door, Reid threw the blanket off his legs. Schrödie darted across the room to his hiding place below the piano. The insistent noise launched Reid toward the entryway. Such a sudden shift in position sent blood rushing from his head, to be replaced by colored dots that clouded out his vision and burst in painful swirls.

Swaying slightly, he gripped the door frame to keep himself steady. He jumped as the impatient pounding at the door returned.

Irritation swelled irrationally inside his chest as he grabbed for the handle. "I'm here, I'm here, keep your shirt on-"

And he was met by the incredulous stare of his partner.

For a moment, the larger man appeared dumbstruck. Maybe it was shock at the heavy bandage across his forehead. Maybe it was concern at the abstract bruising that mottled the left side of his face. Or maybe it was just envy for his spectacularly comfortable robe.

Reid hung on the door handle, his lips thinning. "Hey, Morgan."

I think I might alternate chapters, telling one from Schrodie's perspective and one from Reid's. What do you think? Also, if you're wondering where Schrödie came from, check out my short fic 'Animals Your Soul Will Guide.' It's under 1k and super sweet.

Next time: other humans! Protective Schrödie! And other things.

As always,

Don't write the story. Live the story.