Fundamentally Floyd

The man visited by ecstasies and visions, who takes dreams for realities is an enthusiast; the man who supports his madness with murder is a fanatic: -Voltaire (François-Marie Arouet)

Disclaimer: Criminal Minds is not mine.

It was a fairly easy task to put something in his drip to keep his mind and vision foggy.

She took off the restraints all the time talking in a calm voice to Spencer. "It's OK I know you are scared. But you will get used to it. Night after night laying here not being able to move. You poor darling. Flanders is so going to miss you my precious."

She rolled Reid onto his side and massaged his back with creams to stop his skin getting sore. The injection went into his upper spine. It was quick and easy, but obviously for Reid not painless. She watched as his back arched and his fingers twitched as the liquid coursed its way to his spine.

"Don't worry. You will eventually get used to it."

She rolled him onto his back again and checked the drips going into the back of his hands and then double checked the tube still forcing Spencer to breath. Fluids in and fluids out counted measured and recorded. She had strapped a support around his head and neck and now replaced the strap going across his forehead. She looked at the fear in Reid's eyes and smiled. Then the restraints were replaced around his lower legs and his wrists.

The nurse picked up a damp sponge and wiped it across Reid's mouth. "I can get someone to come in and read to you if you want? Would you like that? No? Alright then. Just sleep Dr Reid. I will be back later to check on you." And he was alone again unable to move unable to think, unable to do anything with his mind but scream for help.

……………………

As fast as they were getting Floyd settled again he was trying to get up. The doctors told him in no uncertain terms that he should be dead and they didn't understand why he wasn't. There was now a bullet lodged in his brain which they were too scared to remove, a through and through chest wound which had ripped right through a lung, and this collar bone was shattered and held together with pins and bolts. He must stay in bed. He must not move. How he was talking and breathing on his own was beyond them all. He was a virtual miracle, but all Floyd wanted was to talk to Hotchner.

Morgan wasn't listening to him when he said "All I can hear is Spence screaming. You have to help him." Derek was convinced it was a nightmare and this was one of the reasons Floyd hated Morgan's kind. Not only did they look and act wrong, but they tasted bad too.

It was the next morning when Morgan still couldn't get hold of Spencer that he called Garcia and asked her to pop over and see if all was ok with him. She had been there before and knowing Floyd wasn't going to be there bad it a less worrisome visit.

She rang the buzzer and got no answer, but as the elevator was on ground level with the doors open she walked in and pressed for the floor. There was a funny smell in there. Like someone hand been sick. A sweet smell.

When it arrived on the apartment level she pulled the doors open and just stood and looked. "Oh." Was the only sound that came out. She opened her phone and called Derek.

"Sweets, something has happened. You were right to check up on him – I don't know but this apartment is all messed up. It stinks of sick and something else sickly and sweet. Maybe rotting food. You need to come home and check this out for yourself."

She stepped back into the elevator and went back down to where her car was parked. Surely if something had happened someone would have seen. The area was so quiet that anything out of the ordinary would be noticed. The only things parked in the street were two battered old scooters.

………………..

He waited until the nightlights had come on and then pulled the things out of the back of his hand again and with a deep breath and a sucking popping sound he pulled the drain from his chest. There was no way he was going to lay in bed being kept away from Spence when he knew something bad was going on. They weren't telling him. He knew they knew stuff and wouldn't tell him.

The medications he should have been taking for his – as they put it – unstable personality – had been fed to him through the drips. It would have to do until he got home or found a new supply. Again he stumbled his way to the place they had put his clothes. Black bootcut jeans and a shirt with bullet holes and much blood. He stood and looked at the mess but had no options now. He pulled on the jeans and buckled up his belt. The shirt he would have to replace but or now this would do. He slid his arms through the sleeves but didn't bother doing up the buttons. Fine silk – shredded. After pulling on his boots he checked there was no one out side the door and walked slowly holding onto the wall to the next room. He pushed open the door and slipped in.

A man was sleeping on this side his back to the door. Floyd stood for a second and looked at the sleeping form and took in a deep breath.

"Get clothes first." He muttered to himself and took the two steps needed to reach the guys cupboard. A shirt in a white cotton, and oh nice! A waistcoat. He quickly put them on, this time taking the time to do up buttons, and then pulled the man's thigh length leather coat out of the cupboard and slipped it on. Making sure to stuff his own shirt in the jacket pocket.

Now he was looking back at the man again. A terminally ill guy – well if he wasn't he is now. A smirk and a few steps forward and he was leaning in smelling the flesh.

"Diseased. Such a shame. Died in his sleep. These things happen." Floyd snaked his hand over the mans head and placed it firmly over his nose and mouth. The other hand he put on the guys chest, and with one knee on the bed he pulled him close.

Floyd could feel his breaths getting stronger and the man tried to struggle but it didn't last long. This was the thing with the ill. No fight left in them. Once he had stopped struggling he released him and took his knee off the bed. He turned him over so he was laying on his back and ran his fingers over the now dead man's lips. "Thank you." And with a smile he slid out of the door and made his way towards the elevator.

His next problem was complete lack of funds or transport. He could have started to walk and hope to hitch, but he himself was still feeling weak and although his inner self was calm again now he didn't think he was strong enough to walk the as far as Quantico from Montana, but he had to clear the area before they noticed he was missing.

Floyd wasn't into car jacking, so really his only option was to walk to the highway and attempt a hitch. He closed his eyes against the pain he was in and started to walk into the night.

When about two hours later a truck finally pulled over he was about to give up and sit down until Morgan came and dragged him back again. Slave controlling the master. He didn't want that. Dirty blood.

"Where're you going?" The trucker called out.

"Anywhere as long as its east."

"Jump on up Mr. I'm glad to have some company."

'Oh you might regret that decision.'

By sun up the next day Floyd was fully sated. The trucker's half clothed torn and abused body was thrown from the cab into a ditch, and Floyd wiped his mouth clean and smiled.

Spence?

Nothing.

I don't know if you can hear me babes.

I am on my way.

Everything is going to be OK.

A dull muffled static was the only reply he got.

…………………………….