The silence was thick, suffocating. Minutes were ticking by.

Hotch stood staring at the various photos. He could hear a rapping noise. He turned and noticed Reid was nervously tapping his fingers on the table again. It was a habit the young man would revert back to when he was frustrated.

"It's going to be okay." He slipped into the adjoining chair and gently put his hand over Reid's. "We'll figure this out."

"I know this. I know. I just can't . . ." Reid rubbed his eyes.

"Reid, this isn't just about you. We're all stumped."

"The youngest holds the key."

"The key to the music box."

"It can't be that simple. He knew about the butterflies. He knew about Nellie Fox. He knows something about me. He knows it and he's using it in his game. I just can't. It's right there."

"You're exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"You've been sitting here for hours. You haven't slept or eaten. You're physically so tensed up that I can see it. You need to take a break."

"We don't have time."

"Yes we do. Take a nap, take a walk."

"Hotch, I'm really fine. Okay. I just need to figure this out."

"It's an order, Reid."

Reid looked up from the paper he'd been obsessively scrawling notes on all day. "Elle."

"Would kick my butt for letting you get worked up and making yourself sick."

"Take a shower at least." Morgan said from across the room. "You're starting to stink."

"Ha, ha." Reid balled up a piece of paper and tossed it at Morgan's head.

"He's right, though." Hotch said with a soft smile. "You are looking a bit wrinkled."

"I guess I could. Shake off some cobwebs." Reid stood and stretched.

Reid retrieved his suitcase from his desk. He ignored the questioning looks as he headed down the locker room. It was thankfully empty.

Moments later, he was standing under the hot spray, feeling the muscles in his back and neck relax.

It had been a hell of a weekend. He'd left torn about going home. Even though he'd sent letters to his mother several times a week, sometimes daily, he hadn't seen his mother in the four years since he'd left to join the FBI. His mother had been less than thrilled about his career choice, wanting him to become a professor. He'd always assumed it was a mother's fear for her child, especially after his father's sudden death.

Now he wanted nothing more than to go back home and go back to the days before. Before he was in the FBI, before his father died, before his mother had become too sick to care for herself. He wanted to go back to the days of playing chess with his father while his mother made dinner. Of curling up with his mother at bedtime. With his memory, they could never read the same book twice. They had blazed through all the standard bedtime tales -- Amelia Bedelia, Curious George, Winnie the Pooh -- by the time he was three. By the time he was six, they were reading Chaucer, Dante, Kempe. His mother had taught a summer class on Arthurian Legend and they'd spent three glorious months reading about Arthur and Merlin, Avalon, the Round table. Spencer had loved the tales of Lancelot and Galahad and Percival. Percival was his mother's favorite. She'd received a book offer after she published a prize winning paper on the allegorical aspects of the legend of Percival and the Fisher King.

"The Fisher King." It hit him like a bolt of lightening. Spencer turned off the water, hastily dried off and pulled on a clean pair of cords. He was lacing up his shoes at the elevator reached the six floor and Spencer pulled his shirt on as he raced down the hall.

"Slow down, Archimedes." Morgan jumped out of his way.

"Actually that's very appropriate." Spencer laughed. "Just as Archimedes had a sudden realization while bathing . . ."

"You solved the case while shaving?"

"Washing my hair actually."

"Yeah that mint shampoo really energizes the brain cells."

"And doesn't dry out the hair follicles which leads to breakage and flyaways."

"Did you just make a funny?"

"Yeah."

"Elle would be so proud."