A/N: Real life was pretty busy over the weekend but here's the next chapter :) Thank you to all readers and reviewers - you are the reason I try to update as often as I can! Hope you like this update and humour my indulgence in a little Morgan and Garcia scene! As always, I'd love it if you left a review.
Hotch stepped out of his office and into the bullpen with an especially serious expression on his face. The area looked empty with only Reid, Morgan and Rossi working at their desks. It was the day after Daniel Adams had taken Emily and the three male profilers were desperately grasping at any possible leads. They had spent so long with the files that Reid wasn't the only one who knew every detail by heart. JJ was still at home with Henry and Will, where everyone had insisted she should stay. If they needed her input then they had all means of technology at their fingertips to communicate her; there was no point in dragging her away from her distressed son in order to sit in the office, worrying about Emily and their lack of progress. It had been a long and slow day, where their concern for finding their friend had grown much faster than their chances of doing so. They had lost track of the car after the last traffic camera image and had issued an APB and, with some hesitation, provided the media with a description to circulate. Despite their efforts there had been no word from the public or any other agency. Until now.
Rossi was the first to notice Hotch looking down at them from the walkway outside of his office.
"What's wrong?" he asked, attracting the attention of the others.
Hotch moved to join his team by their desks before he responded.
"I've just received a call from a Detective John Wilson. Adams' car has turned up on an area of waste ground about thirty miles from the traffic camera where our trail went cold," he answered. The team silently processed this information.
"How did they find it?" Morgan asked.
"Two police officers were on patrol when they saw smoke rising from the area."
"The car was on fire?" Reid asked, though he was sure he already knew the answer.
"Yes," Hotch nodded.
"Was there any sign of Emily?" Rossi questioned, indirectly enquiring as to whether there was anything to suggest Adams had disposed of their friend at the same time he had disposed of the car.
"There was no obvious sign of human remains in the vehicle," Hotch replied. It was far easier to avoid directly referring to Emily and to speak in general terms. "But the car was badly burnt by the time the fire service reached the scene. A forensics team are carrying out tests as we speak."
At Hotch's reply, Morgan jumped up from his seat and threw the chair back against the desk. He wasn't sure whether it was the uncertainty itself or the possibility of losing his friend which was getting to him the most, but it suddenly became too much for him to handle.
"Morgan…" Hotch began, in an attempt to calm his agent and stop him from storming off.
"The press should never have been given the description of the car," Morgan snapped, wishing his boss had just let him walk away. "All we've done is spook him."
"We don't know that he wouldn't have disposed of the car anyway," Hotch reasoned, though he wished he had complete faith in the decision they had made.
"Keep telling yourself that," Derek muttered, turning away from the unit chief, and from his other colleagues. He needed to leave before he said something he really regretted.
As Morgan walked away from the others without another word, smashing his fist into the wall as he went, Reid made to follow after him. However, Rossi laid a hand on his arm before he could move more than a few steps.
"Let him cool off," he instructed gently, and somewhat reluctantly, Reid returned to his desk.
Hotch sighed as his remaining agents awaited their instructions. He wasn't a sentimental man but he wished more than anything for the team to be reunited. Even when they were faced with the toughest cases they could at least depend on each other for relief. It didn't seem right to enter the bullpen without having to dodge one of Reid's "physics magic" rockets or listen to Emily and Morgan exchanging sarcastic jibes, while Rossi rolled his eyes, or share a knowing look with JJ when they had both been up half the night chasing away invisible monsters, only to be woken to deal with the real thing at work.
"Can you take a look at the scene where the car was found?" he asked. "Get a feel for the area and see if forensics have pulled up anything useful to work out where the car has been. We might be able to form a geographical profile if we have some more information."
Reid and Rossi nodded and immediately gathered their belongings and set off to the crime scene. Knowing that they would have their assigned part of the investigation under control, Hotch decided to address another pressing matter, and he headed to the office of the one person that he knew would be able to get through to Derek Morgan..
/
/
Damn, hitting that wall had hurt! And he'd felt a little stupid after storming away from the others like some kind of sulky, hormonal teenager. He didn't really blame Hotch for anything that had happened; he didn't blame any of them. There had been no way of knowing whether releasing the details of the car to the press would help them find Emily or put her in greater danger. It had been a risk they had all agreed to accept, even if he had been reluctant to do so. And, as yet, they didn't even know what the result had been. Still, he was angry and upset and he needed to get it out of his system before it took his focus away from finding Emily.
He found himself in the gym. Typical jock. If Emily was here, and if the team wasn't slowly crumbling under pressure and fear, then someone would have teased him by now. Most likely, everyone would have teased him by now. A small smile flickered across his lips at the thought, but quickly faded as a lump formed in his throat. She had to come back to them; he couldn't imagine how they could ever recover if she didn't. Ignoring the hot sting of his eyes, he began to lay into the punching bag in front of him. He had wrapped his hands but wasn't wearing gloves; he wanted to feel the bag under his fists. His right hand – the one which had collided with the wall – throbbed at every contact with the bag. He ignored it and concentrated on the rhythm of his punches. But while he became oblivious to the pain in his hand, the lump in his throat just would not subside.
Ten minutes passed and Morgan still felt no better. His anger and frustration and the fear of losing his friend remained at an overwhelming level and he wondered if it would ever pass. Letting out a shout as he did so, he used all the strength he had to slam his already injured hand into the punching bag. It swung forward at an odd angle and he had to step to the side to avoid getting in its way as the momentum returned it towards him. It was then that be realised he was no longer alone in the gym.
"I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that's not how you're meant to do it, hot stuff," Garcia informed him, giving him a weak smile as their eyes met. She was standing by some benches at the opposite side of the gym, clutching a small first aid kit in her hands, and watching every move that her best friend made.
"Baby girl, what you doing here?" he asked, his tone hovering uncomfortably between forced playfulness and hinting that he wanted to be alone. In truth he didn't know what he wanted.
"My spidey senses told me that Batman needed Robin," she answered, her tentative grin widening when he chuckled slightly and started to walk towards her.
"You're a special kind of crazy," he remarked. The smile sat uneasily on his face, as the lump in his throat and the prickling in his eyes persisted. But at least it was a smile.
"Sit!" she instructed, when he reached the benches. He did as he was told and she positioned herself beside him. The blood which seeped through the wrap around his right knuckles told her which hand was injured. "Why did you hit a wall? Walls are hard. Derek Morgan's hands are oh so soft and not made of bricks," she muttered, semi-seriously, as she carefully unwrapped his hand.
"How did you…?" he trailed off, wondering how she'd found out about that. "Hotch," he answered his own question.
"Yes, on this occasion our lovely boss man did mention your sudden dislike of inanimate objects. But honey," she paused to raise her eyebrows pointedly. "You should know by now that I am the all-seeing, all-knowing goddess of Quantico."
Morgan laughed again, feeling less like he was about to become the centre of an emotional explosion. Penelope Garcia was exactly what he needed right now. She gently took hold of his hand, examining his burst and bloodied knuckles with a frown.
"Do you even know what you're looking for?" he asked her with a soft smile. She turned her attention from his injury to his eyes and shook her head. "Nothing's broken," he assured her. He'd thrown enough punches to know exactly what a boxer's fracture felt like and, despite the pain and the blood and the swelling, he was certain his bones were intact this time around.
"It still looks nasty," she remarked, screwing up her face as she retrieved an antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit and started to clean away the blood. He flinched slightly at her touch but allowed her to work. "Are you OK?" she asked, when she touched a particularly tender area and he took a sharp intake of air.
"My hand's fine," he replied. She didn't fail to notice that the wavering smile had disappeared and his sad eyes were again the predominant feature on his face.
"And you?" she asked, her hands stopping their task but remaining around his. He gave no reply, as the tight ball of anger and fear positioned in his stomach regained intensity. "Derek, you know you can talk to me," she assured him, turning entirely serious. "Whatever you want to say; whatever you're feeling, I am always here." Her fingers curled around his, careful not to cause him any pain.
"I'm scared we're gonna lose her," he responded quietly, after a minute or so of quiet. He stared at his feet, not trusting himself to look at her in case it caused him to lose control.
"I know," Penelope agreed softly. "We're all scared. But do you know what someone told me?"
He glanced up, awaiting her reply, and she smiled slightly.
"Someone told me not to worry, and to stay strong and to believe that she'd be OK."
"You've got a smart friend," he grinned, recognising his own words.
"Don't I know it," she replied, mirroring his expression. She once again reached into the first aid kit and pulled out a strip of gauze which she proceeded to wind around his knuckles. "I only doubt it when he takes on brickwork with his fists," she quipped, as she secured the bandage.
"It won't happen again. Scouts honour," he promised cheekily, a slight twinkle returning to his eyes.
"Oh, it better not," she warned teasingly. "Or this fine tech kitten will never kiss your wounds better again," she added with a growl.
"You know I love you, right, baby girl?" he laughed, pulling her into a hug and kissing her forehead.
"I love you too," she replied, leaning against his chest. "And our girl is going to be fine – she's the toughest person I know."
"Tougher than me?" Derek asked, feigning offence.
"Even tougher than you, sugar," she answered with a wicked grin. "Plus she has the smarts not to punch things that are harder than her bones!"
/
/
There was a moment between unconsciousness and becoming fully alert when Emily forgot everything that had happened. She pulled the covers up around her and sunk down into the bed as a groggy, nauseous feeling spread to her head and stomach. Hoping that it wasn't yet time to go to work, she tried to recall what had led her to feeling so rough. Garcia – it was always Garcia's idea to keep drinking beyond a reasonable hour. Which wasn't fair because the tech analyst could hide away in her lair while the rest of them had to endure their hangovers in the field or in long, stuffy meetings. Mentally plotting how to address her hangover, and how to get revenge on her blonde friend, she peeled back the covers and forced her eyes open, blinking in the light.
The room that greeted her was both her own and an entirely unfamiliar location. The colour of the walls, the position and style of the furniture, and even the duvet, which smelled of her favourite detergent, were the same as those she had chosen for her home. But the lighting was wrong; the window was different. And the room was a different size and shape from the bedroom in her apartment.
It only took a spilt second for her to remember that months had passed since the last night she had spent drinking with her friends. And as the reality of her situation flooded her mind, the nausea became too much and she vomited onto the floor beside the bed that wasn't really hers.
He had her – that was her reality. And he was going to make her doubt everything about herself and her surroundings all over again. If he just wanted her dead then he'd have done that already. Despite her fuzzy head, she was still able to think like a profiler. Adams might be gradually losing control, but his plan still required her perceptions to be so distorted that she would take her own life.
There was no doubt that her tormentor had the upper hand, but if she could manage to keep hold of what was real for long enough, then her friends and colleagues would find her. She wasn't giving up hope and she was certain they wouldn't either. And that would be her escape.
A/N: Last section was originally part of the next chapter but after a delay of a few days, and because you are all awesome, I thought you deserved some proof of life!