Chapter Thirty-Six

Much as Emily was punishing herself for hurting Isla, over the next couple of months the universe seemed set on doing the same. Hotch tried to call often, and most of the time, she let it go to voicemail and blamed it on bad cell reception in London. His voice soothed her, his stories about Jack made her happy, and she didn't deserve that, so she ignored him most of the time. She still hadn't told him about Isla, so when he asked, she lied. She didn't tell JJ either; every time the blonde called, it was with more bad news about not being able to get pregnant. Her problems paled in comparison to JJ's. She could hear the heartbreak in her friends voice every time she phoned her to tell her another pregnancy test had been negative.

"I mean-" She said, during one particularly long, emotional phonecall, "Do you think...we have a hard job. I've been thrown around a lot. I've been shot. And there was Afghanistan... Do you think there's something wrong because of all that?"

Emily wanted to offer her friend words of comfort, but she knew anything she said would be hollow and give her hope, and if there really was something wrong, then that wasn't fair. "I honestly don't know, Jayje," She said, curling her legs up beneath her on the sofa, "I'm not the person you should be asking about that. If you're really worried, I think the best advice I can give you is to go and see a specialist."

"Yeah, like I'm ever getting the time off to do that." The blonde commented, bitterly, from the other end of the phone. Emily said nothing, but gave JJ her moment of bitterness. They'd already spoken about Hotch's drill sergeant attitude.

"I blame you." The blonde said, with a short laugh. Emily laughed, too, though it was mostly put on. She didn't think the situation was all that funny, anymore.

"Why?" She asked, putting on an indignant tone.

"You had to go and move across the world and leave his miserable ass for us to deal with." JJ accused, lightheartedly. Her laughter died away and she sighed. "He misses you, you know?" And then, before Emily could reply, "We all do."

"Yeah, I know." Emily nodded. "I miss you all, too." More than you know.

London without Isla was lonely. Emily was back to feeling like she had when she'd first moved here; lost and alone. Isla had been her lifeline, her guide, her social life. Without her, all that Emily had was work, and even that was in shambles.

In one week, she lost three agents. She was swamped with paperwork for weeks, not to mention the guilt and the grief. She hadn't given the order, but she had signed the papers, and suddenly, she found she didn't like her job very much anymore. At least, before Isla, she had been excited about her new role...had she? Honestly, it was so long ago that Emily couldn't remember, anymore. All of the rainy days had blurred into one, and her time in London had been distinctly separated into three chapters: Before Isla, Isla and After Isla. There was a very fine line drawn between each of them, and it seemed to Emily that the only time she had been happy in London was that time in the middle. Isla. That second chapter. And she had thrown it all away.

Before that, she couldn't remember when she was that happy.

In Virginia, definitely.

Then she remembered. That night in the bar, with her family. She'd been on painkillers, so not really drinking. JJ had ignored her requests of no more drinks, Spencer had spilled his glass of red wine all over the table and Morgan had gotten them all playing Truth or Dare. That was it. The last time she had been truly happy. That had been a good day; they had saved somebody that day. And then she had celebrated. With her family.

That, she remembered, was also the night Hotch had made his way up to her hotel room. His words had faded into oblivion, but Emily didn't think she would ever forget the way they had made her feel, the warmth that had radiated across her chest, from her heart, when he spoke so softly to her, so honestly. He'd laid his soul bare to her and, in return, she had up and moved a whole ocean away from him. Two broken hearts was enough; then Emily had gone and broken Isla's, too.

"You're really tallying them up," She told herself, in the mirror, as she brushed her teeth, aggressively. Spitting into the sink, Emily wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve. She moved from the bathroom, and looked at her bed. Walking straight past it, she headed back out into the lounge. It was almost midnight, but she wasn't heading to bed. Instead, she switched on her brightest lamp, brewed herself a steaming cup of coffee and settled down with Rossi's latest novel.

Maybe the worst part of Isla being gone was that the nightmares had come back. It seemed that every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. Ian. He was here, in London, looking for her. He was in her apartment, waiting for her, wooden stake grasped firmly in his hand. Sometimes, the worst times of all, she saw him in Washington. She saw him hurt them. Derek, JJ, Hotch. All of them. And she was always too late. Emily couldn't count the number of times she'd seen her friends dead in her dreams, woken up in cold sweats because she couldn't face the tsunami of emotion, the fear and the devastation.

Sleep would always come for her, in the small hours of the morning, but it was better, she had learned, to put it off for a while. The later she fell asleep, the less she dreamed. If she fell asleep at three and woke from her nightmare at five, rather than trying to sleep again, she could get up and get ready for the day. The shadows beneath her eyes were only growing worse, but those she could hide with make-up. And, besides, nobody in London was looking at her that closely.

"My god, darling, you look like shit."

Her neck cracked as her head shot up, and Emily groaned, rubbing at the sore muscles there. She'd fallen asleep on the sofa again, curled around her book, and, just like every other time, she was paying for it.

"Clyde, what are you doing back?" She asked, unceremoniously, not bothering to stand up as he walked into her office and took up the chair opposite her. Glancing around, she could tell he was assessing the lack of personality she had put into decorating her office.

"Very...minimalist." He stated. "So, how are you getting on?"

Raising an eyebrow, Emily sat back in her chair, ignoring the twinge in her neck. "You came back just to check how I'm doing?"

"You know I care about you, darling, is it really such a surprise?" He asked. Emily only stared at him, eyebrow rising further up her forehead, and folded her arms across her chest. "Alright, alright, stop profiling me. This isn't working out."

Emily's jaw dropped. "I-what?"

"This. You. Here." He gestured vaguely around the room. "This. It's not working. You're miserable, darling, and everybody knows it, and nobody who's miserable does a good job. It's not your fault, it's just human nature."

"What?! I do a good job, Clyde." She responded, her voice high with indignation, "I am good at what I do. Is this-oh, god, is this about the three agents we lost last month?"

But he was shaking his head, waving his hands in front of her. "No, no, that was nobody's fault. They were casualties of the job; tragic, but we go into the job knowing it's a possibility. Devastating but, no, not your fault at all, Emily."

"Then, why?" She asked, shoulders dropping.

In response, Clyde gestured around the room. "Emily. Look around. Aside from the books I left behind and the files, you'd think this office was vacant. No personal touches, no pictures, nothing. Not even an umbrella in the stand, which seems very foolish in London. You're miserable here, darling, and it's so obvious. I didn't have to be a profiler to see it and neither, apparently, did your superiors, and you don't have very many of those in your position."

"I have personal effects!" Emily protested, defensively, opening the bottom drawer of her desk. "I keep tights in the office because it rains so damn much! They're personal effects!" She slammed the fabric down onto the desk, eyes darting about the room for anything else that would strengthen her argument. When she found nothing, her heart sank.

"Okay, well, what about your appearance?" Clyde raised his eyebrows. "You're one of the most gorgeous women I know, but right now, I wouldn't go near you. You look ill, darling. You look like you've not slept in a month, like you've not eaten in two, and you really must do something about your fringe, I can barely see your eyes."

"Oh, god," She fell back into her chair, slumping and draping her arms over the sides. "You're right." Then, she was laughing, because the entire situation was so ludicrous. "I moved halfway around the world, away from a job I love, and the people I love, for a job I hate, and a job I'm terrible at. Why did I do that, Clyde? I hate desk jobs." Then she raised a finger, pointing it accusingly at him. "Why did you let me do that? You know I hate desk jobs!"

"Don't try and blame me!" Clyde responded, indignantly, "You're the one who phoned me and said you had to get away. If you loved your job and your friends-slash-colleagues so much, then what were you running away from, darling? Hm? And put the tights away, you're embarrassing us both."

Emily rolled her eyes, but did as he said, slamming the drawer shut with a heeled foot. They sat in silence a moment, Emily slowly swinging from side to side on her swivel chair, the paperwork she had been doing when he walked in all but forgotten. The only sound was the squeak of the chair and the patter of rain on the huge window wall behind her.

"So," She finally asked, "What now?"

"Now," Clyde heaved a sigh that hefted and then dropped his shoulders, "Now, my sweet, you quit and you go home."

She tilted her head, her eyes softening. "Clyde, I'm sorry. You recommended me for the job, I-"

"And I stand by the recommendation." He stated. "You're terrible at the job, it's true, but most people are. The only person who wasn't was, well, me. You're not suited for sitting behind a desk all day and signing papers, Emily. You're more than that. So, no, I don't regret sticking my neck out for you. I'm quite relieved actually. It would have been terribly embarrassing if you were better at my job than I was."

She smiled, then, fondly. "Thank you, Clyde." She nodded, then repeated herself, earnestly. "Thank you."

It was as though he understood. Like he'd known. She was homesick. So, desperately unhappy and so terribly homesick. It was like he'd come to let her off the hook, to send her back to where she was happy. For the first time in months, she felt as though a weight had been lifted. For the first time in months, a genuine smile of happiness lit up her face. She had never been so happy to be fired. He smiled back at her, then, a rare and genuine smile she hadn't often seen on his smug face.

"You're welcome, darling."