A/N: Hello again! I'm soooo sorry it's taken me that long to update... I'm already late, so I'll save you the long ramble about how school's slowly killing me. Anyway, to make it up to you, this episode is a longer one!

So, a week too late, here's chapter 12!


Five minutes after Mycroft had hung up his phone, he already had a private jet and a pilot waiting for Emily in the smallest and most private airport France had, a flat for her to stay in with her belongings waiting for her there, new IDs and a cup of tea. He spent the next hour and a half looking through any database he could find and searching for the possible suspect. He knew the killer must be clever enough to live off the grid, but he still had to try. It was more of a way to distract himself from everything than an actually helpful search. Once every five minutes his mind would go back to the row he had with his brother, and he had to force himself to stop thinking about it. It was ridiculous, the way emotions worked. Always came in the most inconvenient times.

Mycroft looked up tiredly from the files when his office's door opened and Anthea escorted an unfamiliar woman into the office. Only she wasn't unfamiliar – Mycroft had made a research about her, to make sure she was trustworthy. Once he found her connection to the BAU team, he decided she was reliable.

She looked slightly different from her old ID picture. Her hair was about five centimeters shorter and her face was thinner, but her eyes looks as determined as they always were. She was holding a black leather business bag that Mycroft knew contained the documents he needed.

"Sit down, Miss Prentiss," said the government man and gestured towards a chair on the opposite side of his wooden desk.

She gave him a small smirk, sat down and put her bag on the floor beside her.

Mycroft gave Anthea a small nod, and the latter left the room and shut the door behind her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "I've heard a lot about you."

"From whom, if I may ask?"

To Mycroft's dismay, she said with a light humourless chuckle: "I'm afraid I'll have to keep that a secret."

He studied her with his eyes for a second. Not many people could look him in the eyes and not tell him what he wanted to hear, especially not ones that know who he actually was. "Go ahead."

He didn't need to explain what he was referring to. She picked up the bag and put it on the desk. She opened it and pulled out one folder out of what seemed to be a dozen and handed it to Mycroft before taking her bag off the desk.

He opened it and gave it a glance. On the first page was a picture of an unknown man. He had messy and dirty-looking dark brown hair and the blackest eyes Mycroft had ever seen. "Who is he?"

"Joseph Daiva. He was James Moriarty's second-in-command."

"Sebastian Moran was his second-in-command," he said with a frown in a tone that made it more a question than a statement.

She chuckled once. "Did you really think Moriarty would be foolish enough to allow his real second-in-command's name to be publically known?" she said with a hint of arrogance, which faded from her words as she saw the disapproval in Mycroft's eyes. "Sebastian Moran was used as a cover to make you believe you really dismantled his network."

Mycroft cursed under his breath and looked back down to the file. How could he have been stupid enough to fall for that? "And what makes you think he's behind this?"

"When I was in Paris, I was trying to find someone. Once you get close enough to certain people, they start spilling out their secrets to you. I found out about this case and about my team's involvement and immediately began investigating. I was able to find a man that had some information on Daiva, enough for a profile."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the sound of the word "profile". It was okay when they used it to catch murderers, but it was getting slightly ridiculous to see them try to use it on real people.

Prentiss noticed the gesture but didn't react. "The higher you are in Moriarty's hierarchy, the less you have to lose," she continued and explained. "His pawns were people he blackmailed so they'd do the legwork for him, people with a lot of money, a big family or a dark secret. He only promoted the ones who didn't have anything else in their life but him – that made them the most loyal people. Daiva is an orphan, and five years ago, lost his brother in a car accident. That was when he was promoted to be Moriarty's right hand. Rumours say that at some point they became lovers, and after Moriarty killed himself, Daiva swore to kill the man that drove him into doing that – "

"Sherlock," Mycroft completed with a tired sigh. Why did it always have to be him?

She nodded with an almost apologetic look in her eyes. "Daiva has contacts everywhere. There's not a single door he can't open, and he'll do everything he can to have his revenge on your brother."

The government man pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "So what do you suggest we do next?"

"Nothing."

He opened his eyes and gave her a bewildered look.

"There's nothing to do right now. We don't know where he is or what his plan is. No one even knows what made him start going after Sherlock all of a sudden."

"No."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're wrong. There is someone who knows what made Daiva go after Sherlock. We even have him in custody. All that's left to do is to get him to talk."

A spark ignited in the woman's eyes. "My team is very good at getting information out of people. Believe me, if there's anyone that can get your man to talk, it's them."

Mycroft chuckled once, humourlessly. "My man is my brother, and you'd be surprised how childish he becomes when he's trying to keep a secret."


John couldn't deny the relief he was feeling when Hotchner alerted him they were letting Sherlock go. Yes, he was still very pissed, but he was glad they finally stopped considering Sherlock as a suspect.

Nonetheless, he didn't go with him to release Sherlock from custody. He excused himself to the bathroom, and was now washing his face with the coldest water the tap provided. He stared at his image in the mirror, and was surprised to see how tired his eyes were. He couldn't tell if it were the bags under his eyes that made him look tired, or the exhausted look in his eyes.

He kicked the wall under the sink, forcefully enough to let out some steam but not enough to make a noise. How did I miss the signs?, he asked himself again. Everything had a different explanation somehow. He assumed Sherlock's eyes were red from a lack of sleep, which almost always happened when he was working a case that really intrigued him. He assumed his changing moods were… Well, that part didn't particularly stand out. He was Sherlock, after all.

Was he a bad enough friend to not notice his friend was deteriorating?

He pulled out a paper towel and wiped his face. It refreshed him a bit. Not nearly as much as he needed, but it was something.

Seconds after he entered the BAU's room in the building, his friend entered it as well, finally free from the handcuffs.

"There he is," Mary said with a smile and got up from her seat to give the detective a hug. John didn't even bother to ask her to sit down.

The detective accepted the hug in bewilderment. "Mary?" Sherlock asked in concern and glanced down at the blonde's pregnant belly. "What are you doing here?"

The BAU team exchanged quick looks. Neither of them thought Sherlock cared about anyone but John and himself.

"Oh, please don't be like that. I already have one worrying husband, I don't need another one," she said dismissively.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise, but Mary didn't even turn around to see.

Sherlock gave her a small grin. Then, the box on the desk behind her caught his eye. "What's this?" he asked with a frown and approached the desk, deliberately avoiding John's eyes. A short glance inside was enough to delete the leftovers of a smile he had on his face. The team noticed the change in his eyes – it was minor, almost invisible, but it was there. A small spark of fear and shock lit his eyes, and then went off as quickly as it appeared.

"We know you didn't do it, Sherlock," Reid said, and took a step forward towards the detective instinctively. "We found the connection."

"Took you long enough," the detective muttered as he stared at the content of the box. But when he glanced at Reid, the young doctor could see a hint of a grin on the detective's face.

"Do you know who might have done it?" Seaver asked.

The detective looked up from the box at her. "Too many options. I irritate a lot of people," he replied with a smirk.

"You irritate me too, and I didn't frame you for five murders," John said, and his voice made it very clear that he wasn't lying about the irritation.

"You're not creative enough," Sherlock murmured.

"It has to be someone you really hurt," JJ clarified. "Like you pointed out, John isn't creative enough to do something like that, so it must be someone who is."

"I have one name."

"What is it?" Rossi urged him.

"The only person mad and brilliant enough to come up with a plan like that. Unfortunately, he'd dead, so I guess it's not him."

"Well, maybe he faked his death too," Garcia suggested, trying to be helpful.

"Unfortunately?" John did a double take, seemingly the only person to notice the odd selection of words.

"He didn't. He blew his own brains up. I was there," he replied coldly.

Morgan rolled his eyes, which of course drew Sherlock's attention. "Is something wrong?"

Derek glanced at Hotch, which gave him a warning look. Nevertheless, he spoke. "I just don't understand why everyone's suddenly so convinced you're innocent, when everyone you know says you're a fucking psychopath."

John didn't realize what he was doing until it was too late and his fist had already struck the agent's face.

"John!" Mary cried.

"Goddammit," Morgan muttered, and touched his nose lightly to make sure it wasn't broken.

Before he could move his hand from his face, Garcia was already by his side, with a supporting hand on his back. "Come on, let's go," she whispered him, and half-pushed him out of the room. Derek glanced at John on their way out, and the latter couldn't decide if it was anger or sorry that was in the former's eyes.

John Watson realized everyone was still staring at him. "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me," he mumbled, and tried to keep a serious expression on when he saw Sherlock's grin.

"We've all been here for too long. There's nothing else we can do at the moment. I want everyone to go back to the hotel and get some rest," the unit chief ordered, "We'll all feel much better after some sleep."

The team nodded tiredly. As determined as they all were, they all yearned to get some sleep.

"That includes you, too," Aaron clarified and gave Sherlock a serious look.

Sherlock chuckled. "Do you really think you can tell me what to do?"

"Yes, definitely. And you know why?"

"Enlighten me."

"Because John punched one of my agents," he said in a deadpan voice. "I can charge him for assaulting a federal officer, and I will, unless you do exactly as I say."

John gave his friend a concerned look, which he didn't return.

The detective swore under his breath. "Can I at least go back to my flat?" he asked, his voice trembling with anger.

"John, you can go back home now. You and Mary deserve some time alone," Aaron said, ignoring the detective.

Mary sent a grin to John, which quickly helped her up, eager to get home.

"Can I go back to my flat?" the detective asked again, a hazardous look in his eyes.

The Watsons stopped on their way out, curious to hear his answer.

"No. You will go with Reid to the hotel, where you will not get out of his sight until you're back at the station. Am I being clear?"

Sherlock stared at him for a second, and then uttered something that sounded a lot like a curse before storming out of the room.

Reid gave Hotch an assuring glance and hurried after the detective, mumbling a muffled apology to John on his way as he almost knocked him over.

"Are you sure this is the right way to handle him?" Rossi asked after the four were in a safe distance away.

Hotch's emotionless mask melted a bit. "No, but it's the only option left," he said with a sigh.


Garcia tapped Derek's nose very gently with a damp handkerchief, trying to clean the light drizzle of blood from his face.

Morgan breathed in sharply in pain as she tapped too hard, and an apologetic look immediately filled her eyes.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm almost done," she assured him.

She took a step back and scanned his face. "That's it," she said and tossed the now-pink handkerchief to the bin, "You're all cleaned up."

"Thanks," he mumbled.

Garcia gave him a worried look. "Are you okay?"

"You mean other than the fact that I've just been punched in the face?" he replied sarcastically.

Garcia gave him a warm grin. "Since when do mighty chocolate thunder gods care about little hits such as this one?"

Morgan couldn't help but giggle at the ridiculous nickname she had managed to find for him.

"There he is," she said as he smiled and gave him a large grin, "There's my favourite profiler."

"Baby girl, you're the best," he said genuinely.

"And don't you even forget that," she said with a pleased grin and winked, which made them both laugh.

She gave him a meaningful look, and he sighed in defeat. "No, Garcia, I'm not mad at him. I just want to find the son of a bitch that did all those things and get home as soon as possible."

"Right back at you. Now let's go, I need my beauty sleep," she said and punched his shoulder playfully.

The two went back to the team just in time to see everyone packing up. Everyone but Hotch, which surprised neither of them. Morgan patted her shoulder to signal to Garcia to wait a second, and then went to Hotch.

As he saw the frown on Hotch's face, he immediately knew what was the first thing he needed to say. "I'm sorry I lashed out like that," he said with a tired breath, "I know it was stupid and irresponsible."

"It wasn't just irresponsible, it was insensitive," Hotch said angrily. He then took a deep breath to calm himself down and lowered his voice. "You and I both know that Sherlock is dangerous, unreliable and will probably cause us even more trouble than he has so far. But he is essential to our investigation, and you can't talk like that about him. Especially not in John's presence. If we want to get to Sherlock, John's our best way to do it, and he won't help us if he won't trust us."

Morgan nodded slowly. "I know. It won't happen again."

The unit chief nodded once, firmly. "Now that John's going back home, Rossi and I have a spare in our room. You can move your belongings there."

"Thanks," he said gratefully. "You sure you don't want to get some rest as well?" he asked rhetorically.

"No, someone needs to stay here. Besides, Jack should be up by now, and I promised him I'll call him as soon as I can," Hotch replied, and his angry expression melted a bit when he mentioned his son.

"Okay. See you soon," he said, and went back to Garcia, who waiting for him with a very curious look in her eyes. He gave her a look that said "I'm not telling you anything", and grinned as he saw her sulk angrily at him.


Sherlock was faster than Reid. The young doctor didn't even bother to try and catch up with him – he just went straight to the hotel and knew he'd find him there.

When he entered their hotel room, he found Sherlock standing with his back to the door, his eyes on something Reid couldn't see. He took a step forward quietly without closing the door behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible.

His third step brought him close enough to Sherlock to see what he was holding. It was a torn page from a newspaper, which appeared to be a few years old. The moment he read the headline he knew what was bothering the detective, or at least a part of it.

"I bet I'm the first person to read an article about their own suicide," the detective suddenly said without turning his head, and Reid jumped in surprise. He looked up from the page. "You're not as quiet as you think you are."

Reid went back to the door and closed it. He used the lack of eye contact to ask the question he'd been both dreading and dying to ask since they found out the Unsub's secret threat. "Why did he target me?" he paused for a moment, and as he didn't get an answer, he asked again. "The Unsub, why did he threaten you with my death as well?"

"Because he knew you're clever enough to crack the code. He threatened you to tell me to not give you any clues."

"But you did," Reid said and turned around to face the detective. "He told you that if you'll help me find his threat, he'll kill me, and you did it anyway."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he tilted his head, like a confused child. "Did I hurt you?" he asked in a tone that was somewhere between ridicule and disbelief.

Reid didn't reply, just gave him a hard look. He knew it was silly. He barely knew Sherlock, and he was a sociopath after all. But he still felt like they were alike, somehow. He made himself a mental note to stop sympathizing with suspects.

"Don't go emotional on me, I've had enough of that for today."

"That's a shame, because most people have feelings," he said irritated.

"Do you want me to give you a hug and tell you I'm sorry like your mother did after her episodes?" he scoffed.

And that was the moment Spencer Reid snapped.

"From the moment we came here, you've been degrading our work. So you know what, let me tell you the profile I've built for you, and then we'll see how idiotic our work is after all," Reid cried furiously. "I see a man who thinks he's cleverer than he actually is, and spends his life insulting and humiliating others to make himself feel better with the insults he's absorbed in his childhood. I see a man that can't stand the fact that his brother is in every way better than him, so he does whatever he can to prove to himself he isn't as inferior to him as he grew up to believe."

"I think you should shut up now," Sherlock warned him, a hazardous look in his eyes.

Reid was far too angry to listen. "I see a man who uses drugs as a way to escape reality and get some sleep, because he's tormented by never-ending nightmares that remind him what a terrible person he is every single time."

In a matter of seconds Sherlock was right in front of Reid, and he grabbed his shirt's collar. He pushed him against the nearest wall violently, his fists clutching the shirt. "I strongly advise you to shut up right now," he whispered in a voice shaking from anger.

The profiler in Reid screamed to him to stop. He was standing in front of an insomniac sociopath with a short temper and telling him every single thing he didn't want to hear. This was beyond a bad idea – it was a suicide mission. But, just like Sherlock, Reid was tired and angry, and he desperately needed to let out some steam.

"I see a man who takes advantage of a good innocent man to make himself feel like a real person with friends, because deep down he knows no one can actually stand him."

Sherlock's hands moved to Reid's neck and tightened around it. Even in this fit of anger, Reid could see how tired and unfocused Sherlock's eyes were, and suddenly he regretted everything he said.

Although, his main concern at the moment was to get some air to his lungs.

"Sherlock," he managed to whisper, "Stop."

The detective's hands didn't move from the doctor's throat, and the latter was beginning to feel dizzy.

"What would John say?" he whispered with the last breath of air he had, and let his eyes close.

He suddenly felt himself crash on the floor and inhaled sharply, his lungs celebrating the renewal of the air supply. He looked up to the detective, who looked much taller from where he was lying. Sherlock's eyes were on him and a very dark expression was on his face, but he wasn't exactly looking at him. It wasn't hard to understand what he was thinking about.

"I'm sorry," he said in a voice much hoarser than his own. "I shouldn't have said that."

Sherlock remained frozen. Reid caught his breath, and slowly he could feel himself going back to normal. The silence was much too loud for him. He had to say something, but he didn't know what to say, so he said the first thing that came to his mind.

"I used drugs too," he found himself saying. "A few years ago. That's how I knew why you were using them," he paused for a moment, and then continued. "People assume you use drugs to relax, but you don't – you use them to escape."

He waited for the detective to answer. As he didn't get an answer, he sighed and got up awkwardly from the floor without making eye contact. He walked to the bathroom, but the detective's voice stopped him right before he entered it.

"He threatened you to inform me I shouldn't attempt to befriend anyone, because everyone I care about will die, and by being nice to someone I'm condemning them to death."

Spencer entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him without saying a word. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, and was surprise to see a single clear drop sliding down on his cheek.


A/N: Well, THAT was unexpected! John attacking Morgan, Reid profiling Sherlock... And our Unsub FINALLY has a name!

What do you think Sherlock did to arouse the threats? How will the team react to Emily's return? What's the next stage of Daiva's plan? Tell me all about your theories, and we'll see if anyone will get it right this time!

Have a great week!

Allons-y!