A/N apologies for the delay but thank you to all of you who reviewed in the interlude ( , kazzyshah, XoxMountainGirlxoX, GottaLoveCM, , IniTiniNini, Jareau37, Leslet, Becaboo, Guest and Java5678) without you this would have been written even slower

Anyways, enjoy :)


You wake to a white ceiling and the scent of antiseptic. It burns your nose a little. You go to rub your eyes groggily but you feel a slight pinch in the crook of your arm. You look down and see an IV embedded in your skin.

"Hey, beautiful." You hear beside you. You look around to see Derek sat next to the bed.

"What happened?" You ask, wincing a little as the words make your throat hurt. As you begin to wake up fully you start to remember. You remember collapsing. Your heart stops. "Is the baby okay?" You ask, terrified, placing your hands over your abdomen protectively.

Morgan takes your hand. "The baby's fine, JJ. You were just dehydrated and exhausted, that's why you fainted." He says soothingly. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze. "You sure as hell gave me a scare though." He grins.

You let out a breath you hadn't even realised you were holding as relief washes over you. "What time is it?"

He checks his watch, "Half seven."

You sit up in the bed, "We need to get going, we're meeting at the precinct in half an hour."

"Yes, we are, but you are staying right here" You start to protest but he cuts you off, "I know, I know, 'You're fine' but it's not just you that you've got to take care of anymore." He strokes his hand over your stomach.

You glare at him; he's manipulating you, you both know it, but he is also right. It is at this moment, as you are levelling your eyes at Morgan with your best death stare, that the doctor walks in to your room.

"Good morning, Miss Jareau." He says brightly, "I'm Dr Nunez, glad to see you're feeling better this morning."

You consider asking him how he knows you're feeling better but you suppose the fact that you're conscious is a good indication. And you haven't thrown up. Sure, the nausea is there, lurking in the background, as is your headache, but neither are nearly so severe as yesterday. The doctor is reading through your chart.

"Derek here mentioned that you had vomited up some blood last night, is that correct?" He asked.

You nod. You still remember the look of alarm on Emily's face.

"Okay well I don't think it's anything to worry about; sometimes prolonged vomiting can cause minor tears in the lining of your oesophagus, hence the blood. That said, given your pregnancy, I would like to keep you here for a further 24 to 48 hours for observation, just to make sure there isn't anything more serious going on." He smiles reassuringly.

You groan inwardly; trapped in a hospital for 24 to 48 hours? 'Kill me now' you think to yourself wearily.

"I realise this isn't ideal, but I would prefer to be overly cautious than risk you or your baby harm."

You nod again- he, like Morgan, is right. "Thank you, doctor. When will you be able to take out the IV?" You ask, motioning towards the needle in the crook of your elbow.

"At the moment we're only giving you fluids to keep you hydrated and an anti-emetic to keep the nausea at bay." He glances down at the chart in his hands, "You're stats are looking good so I expect we'll take the IV out around midday, just to be sure. After that we'll administer the anti-emetic orally. With any luck you'll be able to keep your breakfast down."

Listening to the doctor, Morgan smiles at you mischievously, knowing full well that you're dreading the thought of forcing down hospital food. You glare at him again.

"Great, thank you, doctor." You say with a false smile, your media smile. The doctor leaves. Morgan kisses your forehead and goes to do the same.

"I've got to get to the precinct, but Garcia's going to keep you company, she can work from here." He says. He puts his head around the door quickly, "Hey, Babygirl, you're up!" He calls down the corridor.

He grins again, then, as the bright, bubbly form of Garcia bustles through the doorway, he's gone.

You smile widely at Garcia, grateful the company. You know that there are far worse people to be trapped in a hospital with.

"Wow, Gumdrop, when my chocolate thunder said you were looking better today I'd hoped for a little more colour in those cheeks." She says cheerfully, though you can tell she's concerned.

"That's just what every girl wants to hear in the morning." You reply, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

She grins a little sheepishly, "Sorry, I just meant that I didn't think that you'd still look like an extra from the Walking Dead, that's all…"

"And the compliments are just flying in today." You laugh.

Unfortunately, the laughter is not to last. Over the next hour you feel your nausea building and your headache creeping forward into your skull until eventually the tap of Garcia's keyboard sets your teeth on edge.

You have a nasty feeling that you know what's coming. "Pen?" You say quietly. It still hurts when you speak. "Do you have a spare hair-tie somewhere?"

"Of course, sugar plum, just give me a second." She rummages around in her bag for a moment, before emerging triumphant with a purple scrunchie and handing it to you. You tie your hair back as quickly as you can manage but you feel so tired; it's like your limbs are made of lead. Just that simple movement has you breathing heavier than you should.

Not long after that your suspicions are confirmed. The nightmare of yesterday is not over. "Pen, pass me the trashcan." It's not a request, it's an order. Penelope looks around in alarm: it's a hospital room, there aren't any trashcans. Thankfully she spots a white sick-bag just out of your reach next to the bed and passes it to you.

You're very glad you had the sense to tie your hair back as you heave violently into the bag. Garcia quickly gets up and runs to the door, shouting for a doctor or nurse. Then she returns to you and rubs your back soothingly whilst holding back the few strands of hair you managed to miss earlier.

When you finish, one of the nurses takes the sick-bag. Her face is impassive but you could swear you see worry flicker in her eyes. You're worried yourself; there was a fair amount of blood in what you've just thrown up, surely your throat isn't torn up that badly?

The doctor decides to increase your anti-emetic dosage and take a blood sample, just to be safe so he says, though again, you swear you can hear worry in his voice. You're probably imagining things. You hope you're imagining things.

The rest of the day crawls by at a snail's pace, the same way you'd imagine a hiker with a broken leg drags himself across the desert. It is a repetitive, agonising day: you feel so sick you can't move. Anything other than lying perfectly still brings waves of nausea crashing down on you like tsunami, only to recede to become a gentle tide that just keeps rising, slowly, but surely.

You drift in and out of consciousness, waking up intermittently as the pounding behind your eyes forces sleep away. You wonder whether that hiker is kicking the inside of your skull, or perhaps he has amputated his leg and is now using it as a hammer to smash a hole through the gap between your eyes.

It's an odd thought, but somehow you think he is succeeding.

Garcia is working an in-depth background on all the victims, desperately searching for a link, or something they had in common that the unsub had targeted. She appears to be frustrated; when Hotch phones to check up on her she's got very little. The first victim had two unpaid parking tickets but that's about it.

Around 5pm Garcia suddenly squints at her laptop intently. You're vaguely aware of what's going on but are trying to return to that fitful sleep that is so elusive. Your stomach has been cramping for the last couple of hours. You're also beginning to feel the sort of cramps you get at the start of your period. It does nothing to ease your nerves; if it continues then you'll definitely ask your doctor about it. You've heard that mild 'period pains' are common in pregnancies and nothing to worry about but given your general situation, you don't want to leave anything to chance.

You blink rapidly as Garcia looks at you, shock evident on her face. "What is it?" You croak, wincing.

She says a single word. "Buford." Her voice is little more than a whisper.

You frown in confusion; what is she talking about? What does Buford have to do with this case? "Start from the beginning, Pen." You say hoarsely.

"I can't believe I didn't see it sooner." Her voice is hollow. You can see that her brain is running at a million miles an hour, running over the information over and over as if to double check. You wait patiently, although that patience is running dangerously thin. It's not Garcia's fault, of course, but prolonged nausea and pain will do that to a girl.

"Garcia?" You ask, firmly this time.

She shakes her head, clearing it and looks at you again. "I was doing some digging on the Moores. Prior to 2006, there is no record of Carlton and Tania Moore. Nada, rien. They just appear, out of nowhere, in Washington. So I dug a little deeper. Their daughters, Danielle and Anna are both married. I checked the marriage certificates. Their maiden name was Buford."

Your eyes widen and a cold feeling creeps into your heart. You have no idea how Morgan will react to this news. When Buford had finally died in prison almost two years ago, Morgan had closed himself of, trying to deal with his conflicted emotions. It was not unexpected, 3 months before, they had received news that Buford had been shanked in the prison yard. He had since developed kidney failure and well, prison hospitals aren't exactly known for a high quality of death. It had been a long, drawn out death.

Derek had considered visiting him although ultimately decided against it.

But this news was not expected, he had no way to prepare for it.

"Is there any way this could be a mistake, a different Buford?" You ask. It's unlikely, you know; Buford isn't exactly the most common surname but you have to ask.

Garcia shakes her head. She turns the screen around so that you can see. On it is a scan of a birth certificate. "No, this is no mistake. Carlton Moore is Edward Buford, the son of Carl Buford."


A/N *gasps* little plot twist for you. Now we've getting to the part where the sh*t hits the fan so leave a review and stay tuned :D

Oh and my other fic, To Live Is To Choose got nominated for a couple of Profiler's Choice Awards (yes I know some of you already know this but I'm still crazy excited) so if you get the time and like the fic then please vote for it?

Fingers crossed I'll be a little quicker with my next update...