A/N: I'm so sorry this has taken me so long to get up! I've been really busy and not really in the writing mood, but I'm almost done school for the year so hopefully I'll get this finished soon. I hope people are still reading, and please let me know what you think.

Chapter 11

"I've booked my flight back for Wednesday," said Hotch casually. It was Sunday afternoon, and he was sitting in Emily's kitchen in a panel of sunlight, drinking a piping hot cup of coffee. "April's almost over, and I'm due back at the BAU on May 1st."

"I know," Emily said quietly, looking down into the depths of her coffee cup.

"Have you thought about coming back with me?" Hotch asked, taking a small sip of his coffee. "Doyle's dead. They found his body on the beach a few days ago, and he left you that note saying that his people had strict orders not to touch you should he die."

This was true. Doyle's body had washed up on the small rocky shore on the west side of the island a few days ago, and Emily had positively ID'ed it. There was no doubt that Ian Doyle was, indeed, dead.

And then there was the matter of the note. Emily wasn't sure how, but Doyle had somehow managed to slip an envelope under her doormat. Inside, in a scrawl that was shaky but still unmistakable, was a handwritten assurance that should he die, Emily was guaranteed safety internationally. Doyle might not have been the most reputable of her acquaintances, but Emily knew his word was gold and ultimately, she trusted him.

"I have," she replied, slowly rotating her coffee cup in her hands and stirring the hot liquid absently.

"And?" Hotch pressed softly, looking up and meeting her eyes.

"I want to go back," Emily admitted, dragging her teeth across her bottom lip. "I miss everybody so much, you, JJ, Reid, Morgan… everybody. I love it here but it's so isolated. I don't want to stay anymore, in a town where nobody trusts me because I appeared suddenly with a sketchy accent and a questionable backstory. And now there's Doyle's mysterious death…." She trailed off, taking a deep breath.

"Are you sure?" Hotch asked, his eyes widening. "I can book you a ticket and we can go back together."

"I think it's time for me to go home," agreed Emily with a smile, her dark eyes sparkling. "I don't have much to pack."

"I'll help you," he offered, with a grin. "When do you want to start?"

"Now!" Smiling, Emily jumped up from the table excitedly and grabbed his hand with her good hand, pulling him up. She ran towards the bedroom and immediately dropped to her knees in front of the closet, pulling it open. She reached all the way to the back and slowly wiggled out eight flattened cardboard boxes. She began to put them together and tossed four to Hotch.

Half an hour later, her bedroom was a mess, littered with half full boxes and one open suitcase. Scruffy bounded around the rooms, sniffing the boxes and looking confused.

"Come here, boy," Emily said, reaching out to take his head in her hands, running her fingers over his soft ears.

"What am I going to do with you?" she mused quietly, looking into the dog's caramel-coloured eyes.

"Are you going to take him with you?" asked Hotch from above her, where he was sitting on the bed packing books into a box.

"I don't know. I don't know where I'm staying and if they allow pets or anything. I can't just bring a collie with me. It's not like he's a Chihuahua," Emily said slowly, folding her professional clothes and packing them into the bottom of her suitcase. She left out two pairs of black dress pants, bootcut and cigarette leg, a tie-neck cream silk blouse and a long-sleeved rose blouse, and a black blazer. She arranged a pair of plain black ankle boots next to the pile of folded clothes for traveling.

"If you need a place to stay, you can stay with me for a bit until you get a place," Hotch offered quickly, "Jack loves you and I'm sure we can stand a collie for a bit." He placed a few more books into the box and closed the top, stacking it on top of the other two he'd filled.

"Really?" Emily looked up, trying to keep her eyes from misting a little at the gesture. It was far more than she could ask for, and she was intensely grateful for it. "Thank you so much, Hotch. I'd love to. Just for a few weeks while I get my footing."

"Done," said Hotch, standing up and brushing off his pants as he crossed the room to retrieve another box. He began to pack it with odds and ends from around the room.

"Hey, JJ, it's me," said Hotch, leaning back against the nearest tree and pressing his cell phone to his ear. It was Monday afternoon, and he was hoping for the best. Emily was almost finished packing and he had taken a brief walk in order to snag the three minutes of cell reception at the top of the craig.

"Hotch, hey! I haven't heard from you in ages," she said, blue eyes lighting up. "When are you coming back?"

"I'll be back early Thursday morning," he replied, smiling at the familiar tone of her voice. "Our flight gets in at 4:30 am."

"Our?" JJ raised an eyebrow skeptically.

Hotch swallowed, remembering that he hadn't told JJ that Emily was alive, or anything beside the fact that he was on Aylesford. "JJ, I know this is going to be hard to handle, but there's no other way to put it." He paused for a beat, closing his eyes, before spitting it out, "Emily's alive, JJ. She's here. Doyle's dead. We're coming home."

JJ's jaw dropped and she pressed the phone a little more tightly to her ear. "That's impossible, Hotch. We buried her."

"It's possible. I'd get you to talk to her, but she's back at the cottage, packing," he replied, ignoring the pain that tightened the blonde's voice, despite the distance.

"Is that JJ?" asked Emily, emerging from the stand of trees behind him, a knowing grin on her face. "Can I say hi?" She moved quickly and plucked the phone from his unprotesting fingers, her other hand roaming over his shoulder and trailing down to his collarbone.

"Em? Is it really you?" asked JJ, a definite catch to her voice.

"Jayje, it's really me. I'm coming home," Emily said, sinking against Hotch as her knees went weak at the sound of her former best friend's voice. He reached up and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

"I can't wait to see you, sweetie," said JJ softly, voice husky with emotion. "I've missed you."

"Yeah, me too," replied Emily, "bye JJ, see you in a few days." She handed the phone back to Hotch right before the line crackled precariously.

"I've got to go, the reception's going to go any second now," said Hotch apologetically, watching the bars slip away. "I promise I'll explain everything when we get back. See you later, JJ."

"Bye, Hotch," she said with a smile, just before the line went dead. She flipped her phone shut and put it back on the table next to her bed. Eyes wide open, she lay back against the pillows and tried to process the information that had just been shot at her through the fog of emotion. Her best friend was alive, and had been for five years. And after all this time and all the grief, Hotch was the one who got to see her. Hotch was the one who got to know that she was safe and sound first. It stung, but JJ knew she couldn't blame her boss. It was pure luck, but she felt a sudden stab of envy. She'd missed Emily. Her so-called death had left a gaping hole in the unit. It had wrecked Reid and Morgan, and she could tell it had wrecked Hotch too, even though he'd refused to show it. Garcia had, of course, tried to make up for the loss, but even though she was invaluable, she couldn't make up for the fact that Emily was gone.

Her blue eyes misted with tears, and she let them spill over and run down her cheeks as she lay alone on the bed, feeling utterly conflicted.

"She took that better than I was expecting," said Emily with a small, tremulous smile as she followed Hotch back down the slope to the cottage.

"She misses you, Em, we all do," replied Hotch, putting a comforting hand on her good shoulder.

Emily stopped in her tracks, staring at nothing as she let the relentless wind tease her hair. "I don't know how I'm ever going to explain myself to Morgan and Reid," she said, turning slowly to face him. "I know I pretty much destroyed them both, and I feel so guilty."

"They'll forgive you," said Hotch reassuringly. "It might take some time, but know that they will eventually forgive you. It might take some groveling too, though."

She bit her lip. "I know. I hate myself for hurting them – and all of the team. I hate myself for leaving just when Spencer needed me the most. I hate myself for making Morgan feel responsible for losing a team member. I hate myself for hurting everyone." Her voice caught in a sob, and she slumped forward and buried her face in Hotch's chest.

He stroked her hair lightly, running his fingers through the tangled, glossy strands. "It wasn't your fault, Emily. None of it was."

"It was my fault for dragging you all into my life," she said raggedly, tilting her tear-stained face up to look at him.

"Emily, we're a family, never forget that," Hotch said quietly. His voice was intense, almost stern, and its tone made her start with a small gasp. "Nobody regrets you 'dragging them into your life,' as you put it. We wanted to help, because that's what families do. They help each other."

"Families protect each other, too," Emily pointed out, lower lip trembling. "They protect each other from things that could hurt them. I didn't do that. I let my family down."

"No, no you didn't. Emily, we wanted to help. We could have ignored it, but we didn't want to," said Hotch, pulling her close and letting her nestle her head against his shoulder.

"I appreciate that," she said softly, "but I didn't mean for it to end like this."

"I know," he said, stroking her hair again. "But know that all that matters is that you're okay."

"What about Declan?" asked Emily brokenly, looking up at him again, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. "It doesn't matter that I'm okay. His father's dead."

"Doyle was never much of a father," replied Hotch, walking her slowly down the slope towards her cottage.

"He did his best," Emily murmured into his shoulder. "God, I can't believe I'm defending him." She let out a small, mirthless laugh, eyes devoid of shimmer.

"Me either. Come on, let's go inside," said Hotch, taking her keys and sliding them into the lock. He twisted until it clicked, and pushed the door open, dropping the keys with a clank onto the kitchen table. She followed him numbly, and dropped into her chair at the table, slumping back against it.

Hotch locked the door and stood back, surveying the cottage. Boxes were stacked by the door, and the place was almost empty. Suitcases leaned against the wall by the door. Emily had packed her meager possessions quickly and efficiently into only a handful of boxes and two suitcases. They were leaving the next morning, and catching the 11:00 ferry from Lerwick.

"Are you going to miss it here?" he asked, sitting down opposite her, and taking one of her hands in his.

Emily looked out over the ironclad waves for a few seconds before turning back to the dark-haired man in front of her and nodding, lips tight. "I will. This place, it just gets under your skin for a while. I'll always keep it in my heart, even when I'm back in the bustle of D.C. and Quantico."

"I'm going to miss it here, too," he said softly, running his fingers gently over her calloused palm. "There's something about the loneliness, the austerity of the cliffs and the waves that got me from the second I saw them."

"I know," Emily agreed, sniffling. "I wasn't sure at first, but now I love it, even as I'm leaving. I can't wait to go back to D.C., though."

"Well, we live just outside Stafford, but I'm sure you'll find a place in D.C.," replied Hotch, settling into his chair.

"I don't know," she said. "I think I might try to find a place in the country, like a farmhouse or something. I know they don't have crofts in West Virginia, but I've become accustomed to something simpler. I'm not sure I'll want to go back to my swanky apartment in D.C."

"Fair enough," said Hotch, cracking a rare smile. "What say you we get the rest of our things moved out here into the living room and then get started on supper? We're going to have a busy day tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan," Emily agreed, with a tired smile. "I think we both need food." She stood up and ventured over to the fridge. Upon hearing it open, Scruffy stood up from where he'd been asleep on the doormat, and trotted over to her, tail wagging expectantly. With a grin, she reached down to run her hands gently over his head, combing through his ruff with her fingers. "All right, I guess you can have treat," she said, reaching into the almost empty glass jar of dog treats and feeding him two milk bones. Dusting her hands on her jeans, she inspected the meager contents of the fridge.

"How does leftover tortiere sound?"

"Sounds good," said Hotch, reaching out to pat the collie nosing at his calves. "Do you need my help?"

"You can bring the boxes out and pack the car," she replied, washing her hands and donning a loud tartan apron.

He nodded, slipping on his shoes and opening the door. Scruffy shot out between his legs like a hairy bullet, taking off the path up to the craig. Hotch knelt and picked up two boxes, taking them out to her car in the gathering dusk.

When he finally dropped at the table half an hour later, Emily turned and took the steaming leftover tortiere out of the oven and began to cut it into thick triangular slices. She scooped some fresh carrots and beans onto the plates, and put them on the table with cutlery. She poured him the last of her bottle of Scotch, sliding the glass across the table to him. She raised her glass, half-full of the potent amber liquid to his, and they met with a soft clink. "To new beginnings," she said.

"To new beginnings," he echoed, taking a sip of the Scotch and enjoying the way it warmed his throat. To new beginnings, indeed.