Part One

Many people liked to joke that Doctor Spencer Reid fit the stereotype of an insane genius to a tee. "Add a few more wrinkles and whiter hair and you'll be a modern day Einstein," they liked tease. Of course, they would then go on to apologize, thinking that part of being an insane genius meant being extra sensitive to humor. Besides, the alternative truth was just not as much fun.

Reid wasn't an insane genius. He was just…a very dedicated one.

Sometimes he was uncomfortable with how intelligent he was compared to other people. Not to say that he was a vain man, but it would be stupid of him not to notice the fact that the things that he said and did, and the results that they often had, did have the potential to rival the things done, said, and set in motion by Einstein. That's why he sometimes felt the need to silence himself in the presence of others. This silence was often dismissed as him being pensive or (and this is what really stung) antisocial when in truth he often wanted nothing more than to tap the nearest person on the shoulder and engage them in a conversation about infinity or the psychological effect that the dominant society had on their humanity. But he couldn't do that, he knew, for if he did he would only get a pitying or amused stare in response.

And so he would always remain an antisocial genius to the outside world.

But sometimes the word 'dedicated' just wasn't strong enough.

If anybody had walked into his hotel room at that very moment they would have been surprised to find the desks and drawers covered in wrinkled papers , diagrams of the human brain (quickly etched out in red pen,) and mathematical equations written in pencil on the edges of travel brochures. They would have found him bent over a lamp lit desk, his hair falling about his face as he quickly scribbled out something that looked suspiciously like Elven writing. They would have stumbled upon the picture of a True Genius.

Earlier that day he and JJ had gone out to question the victim's families. As usual, he had stood patiently in the background with his hands in his pockets as JJ, with an air of solemnity and profession that he had always admired, explained the reason why they were there. Nobody doubted Reid's capability of delivering the same introduction with the same gravity, yet he himself doubted that the family would appreciate statistical facts and probabilities in their early hours of grief like he did when he was a kid. So instead he had stood in the background and listened as JJ questioned each family member, occasionally asking a question of his own when he felt that it was worth the risk. In the end they hadn't gotten much. All of the victims had been friendly young men desperately trying to push their way through college. They had been exceedingly close to their friends when they were alive but outside of that? Nothing. No scandal riddled their otherwise completely average lives, they were loved by everyone that they met, and not once had they gotten into trouble with the law. It seemed as if the team was at a standstill but Reid still had one trick up his sleeve. Excusing himself from a wearied JJ, he had locked himself up in his room and had assigned each man a variable and an equation. It was a bit inhuman, he knew, to look at these victims as simple x's and y's to be used as tools in an equation but he felt deep down in his heart that somewhere – somewhere – amongst the mess of division signs, erase marks, parabolas, and variables the answer lay hidden. So that was how Morgan found him: tousle haired, bent over a nest of papers, and muttering to himself.

"Hey kid,"

Reid jumped and the pencil in his hand went skittering across the desk. He looked up and sighed when he realized who it was. "You scared me," he said, glancing reproachfully at Morgan. Morgan smiled. He bent down and retrieved Reid's pencil. "To say the least," he said, handing it to him. Reid snatched it from him and tried to give him a dirty look but failed completely when he caught sight of the wide grin on his face, "I tried knocking but you wouldn't answer so I tried the handle and, what do you know, it was unlocked. I've been standing at that doorway calling your name for about five minutes."

"Really? You could have been the unsub and I wouldn't have…"

Morgan watched him patiently. When he saw that he wasn't going to get any more out of the young genius he said, "What's keeping your attention?" Reid hesitated.

"I assigned each victim individual variables and turned their surrounding factors into equations. I'm hoping to find a variable that overlaps all six murders. It'll either lead us to the Unsub or something really obscure like… a blade of grass in their driveway."

"Ah," Morgan said, as if this was the most natural response in the world, "you getting anywhere?"

"Not really,"

"That's probably because you want to substitute y = w(6)/25 with y = b(6)/25 in this equation right here."

Reid looked down in surprise at the equation that Morgan had just pointed to. He had completely forgotten about that one equation. He quickly erased the w and replaced it with a b. He didn't know whether to laugh at the unexpectedness of the situation or feel threatened by Morgan's unexpected genius. Morgan smiled even wider, a glint of mischief flaring up in his eyes.

"I don't understand how I could have missed that..."

"Don't worry, genius. It was easy enough to lose it in all of the other equations. That right there," he said, tapping the paper with his long finger again, "was your obscure factor. In the equation that would have represented a minor probability which would have had some bearing upon the case….just –"

"- a very small one," Reid looked up at Morgan, wanting to say something, anything, but quickly became flustered and looked away.

"Anyway," Morgan said slowly, watching him, "the rest of the team's going out to get a bite to eat. You comin'?"

"No. I have to finish this."

"Come on, Reid. No one's expecting you to figure this out all in one night."

"I know, but," Reid chanced looking up at Morgan again, "I feel like the more that I work here the closer I get to figuring out who the Unsub is. It's the only way that I can help you guys."

Morgan sighed and looked at the elegant TV set. Onscreen a handsome man with an aquiline nose and intelligent eyes mouthed wordlessly to his confused looking companion. "Ah, Mister Jeremy Brett," Morgan said quietly, gazing at the TV screen, "The best actor to portray Sherlock Holmes, in my opinion," Reid looked up in surprise. He had been expecting Morgan to reprimand his previous comment and launch into some sympathetic albeit pitying speech on how important he was to the team like the others usually did. Somewhat relieved, he looked at the screen. He had turned on the TV when he first walked in the room, more of a subconscious act than anything, and then had promptly forgotten about it when he remembered how little they had achieved that day. Now he looked between the screen and Morgan with mild interest. "You're familiar with the Sherlock Holmes series?"

"You sound surprised," Morgan said, white teeth flashing

"No…I-"

"Hey! It wasn't just Sports Illustrated and ESPN," Morgan said, laughing.

"No, Morgan, It's not that," exclaimed the Highly Flustered Liar, "It's just that…I find it interesting that you think that Jeremy Brett was the best actor to portray Sherlock Holmes."

"What, you don't?"

Reid shrugged and raised his eyebrows as if it were obvious. "Not really. I mean, have you seen Ronald Howard in the 1954 series?"

Morgan frowned thoughtfully, "a little bit, but-"

"So you have to admit that he was pretty good,"

"Well, hate to burst your bubble, kid, but –"

And so began a back and forth argument between Morgan and Reid in which the diagrams on the table, the man on the TV, and the case itself were completely forgotten as the world outside of the open window grew darker and darker. Morgan was steadfast in his opinion but snarky with his approach as Reid countered him with historical statistic after historical statistic until finally, after what seemed liked hours of counter points and variations on the topic both men found themselves reclining on different sides of the bed. Suddenly, Morgan laughed.

"You realize that it's 10:54, right?" He said. Reid yawned and gazed sleepily at the TV.

"Yeah," he yawned again, "do you feel like ordering room service? You can eat in here if you want." Suddenly Reid froze. He didn't know where that last part had come from. It had just slipped off of his tongue before he could really think about it. He cleared his throat and suddenly became very focused on a string unraveling from the toe of his left sock, waiting with baited breath for Morgan's answer. Part of him wanted nothing more than for Morgan to say no, to decline his offer in his usual patient and understanding way but the other part of him? Well, it wanted nothing more than for Morgan to look at him in surprise, smile, and then say, "Couldn't hurt," in that oh so familiar voice of his.

Which is exactly what Morgan did.

However, thirty minutes later found the two men fast asleep – snoring, in fact - upon the king-sized bed. They had planned to stay up just long enough to receive their room service and eat dinner but had quite unintentionally fallen asleep while watching another episode of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Now the two men slept a peaceful, worn out sleep undisturbed by the confused thoughts of their intertwining pasts and the seemingly unsolvable riddles of their future until Reid, woken by the chilly midnight air that wafted through the window, sat bolt upright and looked around. It was dark in the room, not a thick, pressing dark but rather the misty, silvery dark very few get to see in their waking hours. The soft streetlight filtered in through the fluttering curtains and painted greyish tracks on the floor. Reid rubbed his eyes. He heard the sounds of the humming cars – now fading in, now fading away – and the hissing trees beneath his window. He wondered briefly whether his team was somewhere out there in the night, contributing their own quiet voices to what some of his favorite authors liked to call the symphony of the night before remembering that he had fallen asleep rather late and that they were all back by now. But why had he stayed up so late? What had kept him up? There was an incessant chattering coming from somewhere in the room and he longed to call out to whoever it was that was speaking that he was beginning to get a migraine and could they keep it down before he realized that the TV had been left on. Eyes closed, he fumbled with the sheets that had somehow managed to twist themselves around his shoes (why were his shoes still on, anyway?) and stumbled out of bed. The walk to the television seemed endless and by the time he stumbled back into bed he felt as if the pain in his forehead had tripled and the flashing colors that had briefly illuminated his face as he reached for the on/off bottom would be ingrained in his mind forever.

Suddenly he realized that something or, most likely, someone judging by the shape was on the edge of his bed. It took a minute for his mind to truly wrap around the concept but when it did adrenaline and fear rushed into him like a crashing wave, waking him up faster than any cup of coffee ever could. Someone in a black jacket and polished shoes was lying in his hotel room bed. For one crazy minute he thought that it was his mother (for she was the only one who he had ever shared a bed with) before he remembered that she was miles away in Las Vegas. He frantically tried to recall where he had put his holster as he slowly, slowly reached a hand out to rouse the slumbering figure. Suddenly the man turned and Reid exhaled in relief. It was Morgan, of course. He withdrew his hand and put it to his chest, feeling his heart race frantically beneath his fingers as he remembered everything that had led up to that moment. He had been working on the case, Morgan had walked in and asked if he wanted to join them for dinner, they had gotten into an argument about Sherlock Holmes, ordered room service and then…and then….

What had they done after that? He quickly ran a hand over his forehead and his upper lip, feeling the dampness that covered the two areas. Why was he sweating if it was so cold? Even more importantly, why were his clothes tousled and wrinkled? Had they….did they…did he…there was only way to be sure.

Cheeks burning, he stuck his hand beneath the waistband of his pants and cringed shamefully in disgust as he groped at his cock. He would kill Morgan. Kill him and then bash his head against the headboard. As if once wasn't enough, he thought angrily as he quickly withdrew his hand from his pants and wiped it on the sheets, you just couldn't get enough of me you rapist. Rapist. His eyes filled with hate as he gazed down at the handsome face, so peaceful and untroubled in that moment. Why was it that he was allowed to be so happy and content as Reid struggled with things that he had once before only read about in victim's written statements? This is ridiculous, he told himself as he angrily tried to wipe the tears away, you're stupid for letting yourself trust someone like him. He never cared about you. All he really cares about is sex and his alpha maleness. You fell for him just like all of the other people that he's been with just because he's handsome and he pretends to care about you. So this is what happens when you let people in.