She has no photos in her flat. I mean, like, none. I don't really notice until I'm wandering around the place looking for a clean mug (Emily is organised in many ways, but her home storage system is not logical), but after that I can't stop noticing. She has a wall-to-floor bookcase that almost rivals Spence's: Kurt Vonnegut, the classics, some biographies and a couple of shelves of DVDs; some salsa music in the small collection of CDs, which makes me smirk. Sergio rubs himself against my legs and I crouch to pick him up, holding him close.

We wander into Emily's room. "You don't have any photos," I say. She's lying on her back reading, the book held at arm's length above her face. She twists her head to look when she hears my voice.

"I do too," she argues, setting the book aside and rolling onto her front to look at me properly. Sergio wriggles impatiently in my arms, so I set him down and he runs to her, jumping up onto the bed. When I raise my eyebrows, she points to her nightstand.

"That doesn't count!" I protest when I see it. It's a photo Will took at our wedding, way past 3am when my team were the only ones left. Emily had stolen someone's fedora, adamant that she looked like the world's most stylist pimp. It was meant to be a nice photo – we certainly all started out with our camera smiles on – but Morgan had poked Spence in the ribs just before Will pressed the button, and he'd freaked, dropped his drink on Penelope's shoes and, well, we're all in various states of shock and amusement.

She smiles lazily. "It's my favourite photo," she says, scratching Sergio under his chin. "I miss you guys."

"We miss you too," I reply, setting the photo back down and sitting on her bed, back against the headboard. Her brown eyes are so sad, and I hate it, hate that it came to this; Emily on the other side of the world and us missing her, always.

She sighs and sits up, Sergio letting out a mewl of protest as he's forced to relocate. "Have you thought about what you want to do?"

We'd talked about it late into the night, where I go from here. I'd joked half-heartedly that you can't get much more 'rock bottom' than almost killing yourself on a case, then fleeing the country. But my mind flashed back to Rosalyn, to that bright Monday morning when I was way too young to understand what I was seeing, and she'd sensed it and grabbed my hand – "Jen, listen to me, you are going to come back from this."

I bite my lip, close my eyes, nod. "I'll make an appointment with a psychiatrist." They'd forced me into a few sessions with the Bureau's shrink when I got back, but it hadn't stuck; talk therapy and profiling are a little too similar for my liking, and I guess I was better at convincing myself I was okay back then – repression is a wonderful thing.

She nods slowly, her eyes searching mine. "You're sure?" I spent middle school in a psychiatrist's office; it happens when you're the preteen whose sister killed herself. Even if I'd been perfectly fine, nobody would've believed me. I ended up back in therapy in college, too, when the rigorous diet and exercise regime I'd convinced everyone was conducive to my athletic performance led to me collapsing mid-game. You could say I have a record with therapy. And even after all the practice I've had at it, there are few things I hate more than sitting in a room with someone who is literally paid to analyse my feelings.

I swallow. "I don't have a choice, do I?" She's one for the tough love approach, Emily Prentiss; gets you comfortable on her sofa with a mug of tea and makes you see all your flaws, your options, like a roadmap of your life, where-do-I-go-from-here style. She can be like those lights they use in changing rooms, the ones that highlight all your spots and stretch marks and make everyone look like crap. It's hard to explain, but Emily doesn't do it maliciously. She'll listen for hours, and eventually you'll talk yourself back round in a circle to the thing you don't want to do but know you have to do.

She shakes her head slowly. "There's always a choice, but… no. Not really. Not if you want this to get better instead of worse."

I sigh. "I have to tell Hotch." It's a thought I don't relish. Hotch is like my big brother, but before that he is my superior, and I am an agent with a duty to keep her superiors informed when her mental state is impacting her work. He is my superior, and I am in the wrong.

"Honey, he'll just be pissed at the Bureau shrink for letting you walk out of there in the first place," she remarks. "I managed to convince her I was seeing a man called Sergio once; I don't think he's ever quite forgiven her gullibility."

I narrow my eyes at her, unsure whether she's joking. "For real?"

"For real," Emily confirms, unable to stop herself grinning. I burst out laughing. "Seriously though, JJ, go and see a real professional, not just somebody who's paid to tick the boxes on a Bureau form. Hotch will just be glad you're doing something about it."

"He'll take me out of the field," I murmur, pulling the sleeves of my jumper over my hands. I know I won't lose my family over this – Will is a good man – but I could well lose my job.

She shakes her head slowly. "Not forever. He and Garcia still share your liaison role, right?" I nod. "So he'll probably give you that back for a while. Less time in the field, more time in the office. It's less profiling than you're doing right now, sure, but you know he won't let you go. Not again."

She's probably right, but it feels like a step backwards. The Jennifer Jareau who was a media liaison is not the Jennifer Jareau who came back from Afghanistan. It feels stupid that that experience could have changed me so much, even before the torture – it's not like I was on the front line or anything. But I haven't been that version of me for a while, and aside from anything, I don't know if I'll fit back into that template.

I close my eyes briefly as I realise something. "Oh God, I'll have to tell the rest of the team…" Projections of their concerned faces flash through my mind.

"One step at a time, JJ," Emily reminds me. "One step at a time."