Author's Note: Just so you guys know, I absolutely despise writing cases. Unfortunately, it was necessary to show JJ's progress. I've tried my best to make them as interesting and/or plausible as possible, but I will admit right now that there's every chance of loose ends. If this happens, or if there's simply something that doesn't make sense, please let me know and I'll correct it.

Also, I usually try to personally respond to every review I receive, but my life is somewhat hectic right now (divorce will do that to ya) so while I have good intentions, there's a chance I won't respond to every one of you. Please know though that I greatly appreciate your feedback. They do wonderful things for my motivation so keep 'em coming. :)


Chapter Two: The Only Way Is Up And Down And Up

March 23rd 2015, 3:14pm:

In a small Illinois town, middle-aged men were being targeted using copycat rituals. In a small FBI-chartered jet, JJ had abandoned their typical seventeen minute breathing period and was intently studying those copycat rituals.

Two manila folders lay open before her – one dated nine years ago, and comprised of details from the original case, and the second more recent, and comprised of the sparse evidence they had so far.

David Ballinger, forty-nine years old, acupuncturist, had taken white, brunette women in their late thirties and exacted his anger towards his mother on them. His unique method of torture mimicked his chosen career path, except those little needles weren't simply needles - they were needles with a slow-acting, highly-agonizing poison on the tips. After spending weeks working the life out of his victim's body, he'd bury them in nondescript graves on the grounds of an inherited farm. He was sadistic and, consequently, so was his apparent admirer.

There were two differences in the recent case: the fact that the victims were male, and too the fact that they hadn't been buried, but dumped in various spots in downtown Chicago. Honestly, if it wasn't for the puncture wounds located on every one of the victims, the local PD never would have guessed copycat. From the sounds of it, they were still skeptical, but that's where the team came in.

Pulling a leather-bound notebook from her jacket pocket, JJ flipped to a clean page and began making notes:

*Check out the farmhouse, or at least check the victims for any signs that they've been anywhere near one – if the unsub is copying the kill method so diligently, perhaps they're copying that detail too.
*All victims are residents of Rosemont, Illinois – why? Would he really be so bold as to take victims close to home? Or is there some other meaning?
*Interview the families of the victims – perhaps there's a link between the current victims and the previous victims.
*Looking into the backgrounds of nearby acupuncturists is a given, but we should probably also-

When Emily sat down beside her with a bizarre smile on her lips, JJ looked up cautiously from her notebook - like she was certain there was a joke playing out somewhere that she wasn't in on.

"What?" She asked, with no effort to hide the uncertainty in her tone.

"You're in my spot." Emily replied evenly, her lips only curled at one corner now, and winked to tell JJ that she was joking.

JJ relaxed instantly. "It was my spot before it was your spot." She rebutted with a playful smirk. "They were all my spots before they were your spots."

Emily opened her mouth dramatically, feigning shock. "Did your mom never teach you to share, Jareau?"

"Not when it comes to the window seat, no." JJ grinned, and reached out to squeeze Emily's hand as she returned her attention to the notes in front of her.

As she pulled her hand away, her fingers lightly, hesitantly grazed over the brunette's knuckles, telling her that she was far more terrified about being back in the field than she'd remotely considered she could be. Thankfully, it told Emily that too, and before their flesh had chance to part, the brunette grasped at her hand and pulled it beneath the table, where she held it for the remainder of the flight.

It was nothing, and it was everything. JJ just hoped it was enough to ensure that she didn't screw this up.


March 23rd 2015, 4:33pm:

When the team touched down and Reid pulled her back from the rest of the group as they crossed the tarmac, JJ had expected something weighty to pass his lips. Instead, he remained silent and simply walked in line with her.

She noted the way his hands were stuffed into his pockets and the way he was intentionally scuffing the front of his moccasin into the ground with every step he took, like a small child, and found herself with immediate concern.

"What is it, Spence?" She asked softly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, only for the wind to sweep it away again.

Reid stopped then, and cast his eyes towards the rest of the team, who were still heading towards the awaiting taskforce from the Cook County Police Department.

"Six months ago," He began, "you asked me for a word, and I couldn't give you one. You needed something, and so I gave you information. On both accounts, I arguably failed in my endeavors – justifiably telling you that that help you so bravely reached out for wasn't going to come from me.-"

When JJ opened her mouth to rebut his certainty, he turned his full attention towards her, his voice a little more solid.

"-You ran until you couldn't see us anymore, JJ. But we could see you. I could see you. And I guess I… I just wanted you to know that I'm walking with you. I was always walking with you."

JJ's heart broke.

Taking a second to fully absorb the beautiful innocence on his face, the pure love in his words, she wrapped her arms around Reid's neck and pulled him tight against her. The embrace was awkward, just like it always was with him - all skin and bones and an apprehension of physical contact - and it felt like nothing less than perfection to JJ.

"I know that, Spence." She whispered against his cheek. "I know that's true for all of you."

"You tried to kill yourself, JJ." Reid responded as he pulled back, the bluntness in his words catching them both by surprise. It was true, of course, but no one, since it had happened, had mentioned it so directly. "How can you have known we were walking with you if you felt so alone that you had to do that?"

Immediately, JJ's face softened from the pain that the reminder in his words had caused, to a different kind of pain solely for him.

He was someone who had to understand, everything, but this was probably one of the few things she couldn't explain to him. She tried, really tried, but the words just wouldn't come. Perhaps because she still hadn't reconciled the situation with herself enough to be able to explain it to an outsider.

How could she explain to him that loneliness isn't measured by the quantity or quality of the people around you? How could she explain to him that she wasn't categorically trying to kill herself, but just trying to make the noise stop in any way possible? How could she tell him that she had always known they were walking with her, but that there had come a point where she wished they weren't?

She couldn't. But what she could tell him was this: "What I did, was not your fault. What I did, is never going to happen again."

"How do you know that, JJ?" He asked without missing a beat, and JJ, again, had no response.

His eyes remained fixed on her, the wind violently blowing his hair against his face not enough to deter his gaze. He wanted an answer.

JJ looked away, specifically to the team who had almost reached their destination; and when Emily looked back to her with an equal parts concerned and perplexed expression, she found herself with her own ponderings.

Were they all walking so closely alongside her these days to reassure her they were there? Or were they doing it to reassure themselves that she was still there?

Looking back to Reid, she reached for his arm and squeezed. "Come on. They're waiting on us."

Reid complied, with clear reluctance, and soon they were back with the team and being introduced to the lead detectives on the case. But JJ was more than aware that she hadn't answered Reid's question, just as she was more than aware that it wasn't his question alone. In the back of their mind, they were probably all wondering the same thing, but it was difficult to give them a solid answer when, she realized, she was too.

Remaining on the tightrope she'd created when life was relatively placid was one thing, but how would she fare when a gust of wind inevitably came to blow her off course? That would be the ultimate test. That is where she would find her answer. That is, she feared, where she would find she wasn't cured at all.


March 24th 2015, 1:16pm:

They'd been at this since noon yesterday. Around 3am, Hotch had ordered them to head to the motel on the condition that they be back no later than 8am. Five hours – generous really, considering how many seconds they'd wasted already.

JJ, of course, in her efforts to prove herself, hadn't slept, and consequently, she was already on her second cup of coffee by noon.

She didn't much like that two of her self-imposed rules had come into question in just as many days, no more than she liked the fact that sleep-deprivation probably wasn't going to assist her in her endeavors to remain safely walking her tightrope. But there were more pressing issues at hand. Something would always have to give, and in this job, the scary reality was that it would always have to be her personal issues.

What was Garcia thinking? She didn't have time to be human.

During the night, the body count had risen. Two more victims had shown up in two separate locations along the outskirts of Chicago, and all JJ could think was: while I was staring at the ceiling going over possibilities, these two guys were realizing that the ceiling they were staring at was the last one they'd ever see.

Stepping out of the SUV at the second dumpsite, she instinctively lifted her hand to her eyes. It had been a while since she'd been in the Midwest during early spring, and she'd forgotten how blinding the sunlight bouncing off of the still-present snow could be.

"Here." Rossi slipped off his shades and handed them to her, shoving them more urgently towards her when she didn't immediately take them.

"What about you?" JJ frowned, but slipped the shades on nonetheless.

"Ah, my eyes are older than yours, thus a little more hardened." Rossi smiled warmly, and then shifted his expression to one that indicated he'd just realized that that probably wasn't altogether true. She'd been on this planet half the time he had, sure, but that was in no way an indicative factor of all that those blue eyes of hers had seen.

As they approached the body, covered with a sheet by the officers who'd found it, he studied JJ carefully.

On the surface, the woman looked to be the epitome of innocence. He'd seen the way the lead detective had looked at her when they'd met – like he felt she'd be better suited to an office than tracking down serial killers. He imagined most people developed the same immediate opinion towards her. But he knew better. They all did.

Appearances are deceiving, and her appearance deceives everything.

She'd hesitated when she'd stepped towards the body, something he'd put down to this being her first case back in the field. And that little notebook he'd noticed she'd had permanently by her side since yesterday, was a safety net he recognized from his own days of battling with his demons. She was still unsure of herself…

She had no idea that the reason she had to be unsure of herself would go on to be the reason she'd never be unsure of herself again. This woman was going to become one of the FBI's elite, a force to be reckoned with… and good luck to anyone who got in her way.

He smiled to himself, and then crouched down on the opposite side of the body to JJ. "You think it's the same guy?"

"The puncture wounds indicate that." She replied, utilizing the pen she'd been using to make notes to lift the hair covering the guy's forehead, where she found further needle marks.

The wounds indicate that, Rossi thought, not 'Yes, and I know that because of this'. "So we should consider him victim number seven?"

Midway through jotting something in her notebook, JJ looked up, something uncertain in her eyes. "Unless you don't think…"

She swallowed and sat back a little, the expression in Rossi's eyes familiar and yet foreign. It made her think of sitting beside her dad at the dining room table when she was nine, showing him every answer in her homework assignment to ensure she'd gotten them right, while he simply told her: you believed the answer enough to write it down; don't second-guess yourself now.

He'd been trying to teach her to trust herself, just like Rossi was right now.

Straightening her back, she snapped her notebook closed and spoke solidly. "We should consider him victim number seven."


March 24th 2015, 3:18pm:

When she and Rossi arrived back at the police department, JJ was infinitely grateful for the green tea that Emily immediately handed her – even if it was accompanied by a stack of files thirty-two high, of every apparently-suspicious acupuncturist within a fifty mile radius of Chicago and Rosemont.

She didn't say it, but honestly, to her, every acupuncturist was suspicious. What kind of sadistic human-being stuck pins in people and enjoyed it enough to do it for a living?

Grimacing at the memory of the one time she'd tried it under Garcia's encouragement – surprise, surprise – she plonked herself down at the remaining empty spot around their mock conference table.

The female and slimmer male acupuncturists were eliminated first. They hadn't ruled out an accomplice, but they had too little time to be checking into the background of people who likely didn't have the upper body strength to subdue a large and probably unwilling male. When Morgan had chimed in and offered her an indisputable – and probably too descriptive - argument as to how a woman could actually quite easily subdue a male, she'd quickly handed off a stack of files to him. That had left her with seven.

Truthfully, all seven were good candidates. Truthfully, neither of them fit the bill. Truthfully, in the ninety-seven minutes she'd been back from the dumpsite, she'd achieved nothing but a cringe-worthy visual from Morgan and a barely-touched, now-ice-cold mug of green tea.

Glancing around to find her own frustration etched across four other faces, she dropped the file in her hand to the table in temporary defeat and pushed herself up, stretching out her back as she did.

The move caused Morgan to cast a glance her way, and she lifted her mug to answer the unspoken question in his eyes. Apparently being let off the leash into the field didn't mean being let off the leash at all – it meant that it was shorter than ever.

She quickly turned away, knowing he was seconds away from offering to top up her drink for her, and strode towards the coffee pot situated in the main area of the police department.

In the very instant she stepped out of the mock conference room, Hotch – who was chatting with the captain in his office – pinned his eyes on her, consequently ensuring that she bypassed her original destination entirely, and instead headed for the restrooms.

She just needed one second where somebody wasn't looking at her with those concerned, overbearing eyes of theirs. She got it - she really did. But it felt more like they were waiting for her to fuck up, than ensuring she was stable enough to get it right.

Splashing water on her face to wake herself up – it was probably better for her than more caffeine anyway – she braced her hands at the lip of the sink and hunched her shoulders.

In her mind, everything sped by in blurs and flashes, almost too fast to keep up with. She'd lost herself to that white noise before, and learnt just what happens when she fails to keep up. But stood alone in that bathroom, she gripped harder at the porcelain beneath her palms and made herself keep up, because somewhere in that mess of information and uncertainty and fear of failure, she knew, was the one thing they were missing. And if she let Hotch down now, he'd probably never trust her again.

Details from both cases flew past her eyes like data on one of Garcia's many computer screens: dates, times, locations, methods, mug shots, evidence shots, autopsy reports, victimology, until…

She quickly pulled her notebook from the pocket inside her blazer and flicked to the right page, something devastated in her eyes. And it was devastation, because she'd considered it on the plane, deemed it important enough to write it down, and in her distinct lack of trust in herself these days, she'd hesitated. She'd hesitated, and consequently two more men had died.

Bursting into the conference room, she found the gaze of every team member, as well as a few unknown officers, fixed upon her, perplexed – and, in all likelihood, worried for her sanity.

"Um, I…"

She rubbed her thumb and forefingers against her brow, mildly concerned that her lack of sleep or real sustenance was taking its toll. What if she was wrong? When Emily nodded in encouragement from across the room, she cleared her throat and tried again with a little more confidence.

"During the original case, the victims were found at a farmhouse," She scanned over the information in her mind once more, just to be sure, "and Rosemont is barely a mile from there."

"I remember the place." Morgan chimed in. "Rundown, old thing. Looked like one good windstorm would bring it down."

"It belonged to Ballinger; inherited it from an uncle." Emily provided distractedly as she leaned over the conference table in search of something. Locating the desired file, she flicked through the pages until she found what she was looking for, then looked to the rest of the team. "Now it belongs to Nate Rosemont, who inherited it when Ballinger was executed last year."

"Why?" Reid frowned, practically snatching the file from Emily, his eidetic memory taking a hit.

He thought he'd read every file in this place – why hadn't he remembered that? Maybe he'd been a little too distracted by JJ's failure to provide him with an answer.

Reaching over his shoulder, Emily pointed out the information he was searching for, and his eyes widened. "He's his son?"

"Rosemont." JJ stepped forward. The name was familiar to her for more than the fact that it was the same name of the victims' residency – something that probably wasn't coincidental - and she rummaged through her lucky seven until she found the one. She looked up. "He's one of my seven."

"Well it looks like we might have our unsub and our trigger." Rossi stood, something of fatherly pride in his eyes. "Good work, JJ."

JJ smiled in response, but didn't quite take the praise he'd intended. Because she should have noticed it sooner. And thirty minutes later, when she found herself striding into a farmhouse in pursuit of their unsub and then taking two abrupt and shaky steps back, she realized something else she should have noticed sooner: she wasn't ready for this.

Hotch was wrong, so very wrong. If she could be so careless with her own life, how could he possibly trust her with the teams'?

"JJ?" Morgan, who was stealthily bracing himself beside the door their unsub had just vanished through, looked to her, and got no response. When he called her name once again to no avail, he shook his head in what JJ read as frustration, and darted after the unsub alone.

And JJ stood, paralyzed in a moment in which it was imperative for her to be alert. Her chest heaved, though she tried to hide it, and as she stared catatonically in the direction Morgan had just disappeared, she felt like she was witnessing her demise all over again.

With nowhere for the unsub to run, the apprehension took mere minutes, and by the time she'd steadied her racing heart, Nate Rosemont was in cuffs and Aaron Hotchner was staring her down. And all she could do was stare right back, because they both knew this had been a mistake.

Would she ever be ready to truly live in this world again? Or would she forever be paralyzed in place for fear of falling?


March 24th 2015, 8:15pm:

When Morgan heavily dropped himself into the seat opposite her on their flight back from Chicago, JJ wasn't in the mood. Yet he, unlike her, looked the epitome of relaxed - his lime-green headphones hanging casually around his neck, a beat still pulsing from them, while he rested his elbow against the table between them and cradled his temple between his two forefingers and thumb.

It was clear that whatever he'd come over here to discuss was supposed to be discreet, but there was nothing discreet about her life these days. She'd lost her right to discretion when she'd began waging a war against herself, and even now, four months after the fact, her bodyguards didn't seem willing to let up enough to give her one second alone.

Though, that was probably justified when she was what they were protecting her from.

Still, the furtiveness in his stance was unnecessary – the team probably knew exactly what he was about to say to her, just like she did: I don't think you're ready for this, Jayje. You were supposed to have my back today, and you didn't. Do you realize the position you put me in? I don't know that we're ever going to be able to trust you again.

"One day at a time." He smiled, and reached out for her hand.

And JJ, for her part, scoffed in astonishment. She quickly looked around the cabin, as if checking if his words was the general consensus amongst her other watchers. When the only other person she found looking her way was Rossi - who, like Morgan, had a reassuring smile for her - she looked back to the agent holding her hand and slipped hers away.

"And what if I kill you in the meantime?" She asked solidly, sternly.

"If you kill me?" He parroted, shocked. "Jayje, I'm the one who screwed up. I should have had your back and I didn't."

"What?" JJ shot back, louder than she'd intended, then leaned a little closer and lowered her voice. "I hesitated when you needed me the most, Morgan."

"And so did I." Morgan returned quickly, and the firmness in his eyes and tone told JJ they weren't talking about the incident at the farmhouse anymore. "I let you push me away; I won't be doing that again."

JJ didn't say a word. Not because she didn't have the words, but because she didn't know how to tell him that, just for a moment, she wished he would. Wished they all would. Wished they'd all stop tiptoeing around her, and instead treat her like they had before she'd jumped off the deep end.

She didn't need to be carried. She needed to be told she'd fucked up, because she had. She had, and she wouldn't again. But when she looked up for a second time and found Hotch peering at her from across the cabin, she knew convincing him of that wouldn't be so easy, and that task would begin as soon as they touched down in Virginia.


March 24th 2015, 10:47pm:

By the time Hotch had crossed the tarmac and arrived at his SUV, JJ was already waiting for him.

He hadn't said a word to her on the flight, but she knew that as soon as they reached headquarters, she'd be summoned to his office, where he'd likely, once again, leave her to stew in her own thoughts for twenty minutes. Preferring to avoid the unnecessary reflection period, she decided to beat him to the punch.

"You wanted to speak to me?" She said as he approached, not really a question though it was worded like one, and Hotch faltered momentarily.

He watched her for a second, his face as stoic as ever, then silently reached out his key fob and unlocked his car.

Walking by her to climb inside, giving no real indication that she should do the same, he finally spoke. "There'll be a mountain of paperwork to plow through following this case; I'd like you to take care of that and have it on my desk by day's end tomorrow."

JJ remained still, lips parted, as he climbed into his vehicle. It was a given that there was an underlying reason for the way he acted towards her these days, but she wished that, for once, he'd be straight with her. But, of course, that was something she wished for from all of them – and something she probably wasn't going to get any time soon.

When she finally abandoned her uncertainty and climbed into his car without prompt, a second expression of surprise graced his typically robotic features. Something told her that was a good thing – at least it was an expression more than neutral.

Placing her go-bag at her feet, she clipped her belt into place and effectively told him that she was riding with him back to headquarters, and only when he started the car, did she speak again.

"I know you're regretting allowing me back in the field, and I know I messed up bad today." She began. "I have no excuse for failing to have Morgan's back, and I won't try to create one. But it won't happen again."

"You seem very certain of your words." Hotch observed as he pulled out of the airport, and he knew JJ didn't know whether to take it as a question or a statement.

"Well…" JJ looked briefly to the road ahead of them, and then cast her uncertain eyes back to Hotch. "I mean, I…" She looked down and shook her head. "I will try my best to make sure it doesn't happen again, and I understand if you wish to retract your decision to grant me clearance for fieldwor-"

"I made the decision for a reason." Hotch cut in, pulling onto the highway that would take them directly to FBI headquarters. "I stand by that reason, that decision. There will be no retracting."

JJ looked directly at him then, even as he steadfastly kept his eyes on the road. They were less than three minutes from base now, and she felt no better or clearer about the day's events than she had before she'd boldly chosen to climb into her boss' car. Why couldn't he just tell her she'd messed up? Why wasn't he reprimanding her or giving her some kind of ultimatum?

As they passed through the security checkpoint and entered FBI grounds, the realization that she was almost out of time to gain enough closure to sleep tonight asked the question for her. "If I may ask… what was your reason?"

Hotch didn't answer, at least not right away. Instead, he took the time to drive through three levels of the parking structure, to the floor where he knew JJ's vehicle to be. Once there, he kept his hands on the wheel and his gaze diverted from JJ's, right up until JJ seemed like she'd given up waiting for a response and was about to climb out.

"You'll figure it out, agent." He looked to her. "And you'll know when you have."

JJ had to place real effort into keeping the scoff of frustration from her lips. Aside from anything else, that damn word stuck in her throat: agent. She wasn't JJ to him anymore – she was 'agent'. Talk about a fucking demotion.

"Right." She nodded quietly, reaching down for her bag. From there, she looked him square in the eye- "I will have the report on your desk by tomorrow afternoon, Sir. Good evening." –and then climbed out of the car to head to her own.

As Hotch took a left to exit the parking structure, a motorcycle took a right and intercepted him, the sudden screech of tires in the otherwise silent space prompting JJ's attention. She turned back just in time to see Hotch's SUV jerk to an abrupt halt to keep from hitting the rider, and the rider offering a hand gesture of apology before speeding off into the night unfazed.

It was a brief thought to go check on Hotch, but within a second or two, he drove away, and much to JJ's surprise, as she turned back to her own car, there was a small smirk on her lips.

She was far from the type to wish revenge upon anyone, and of course she wished no harm to come to him. But she couldn't honestly say that she hadn't taken some kind of amusement for the reflexive panic that had likely appeared on her stoic leader's face in that split second.

"What are you smirkin' at?" Rossi's voice echoed across the parking lot, and that smirk of JJ's very quickly turned into a light chuckle.

"Karmic retribution." She answered, tossing her bag to the passenger seat.

It soon became apparent that Rossi's question had only been asked as a means to grab her attention, because he didn't respond, but instead stopped in front of her and held out a notebook. "You forgot this."

JJ looked to it, and then back to him. "Is it technically forgetting if you purposely left it some place?"

"Let me rephrase." Rossi smiled. "You forgot how important this is."

JJ laughed humorlessly and shook her head. What was the point in making notes if you were going to push yourself so hard that you forget them? "I don't think so. It certainly didn't save Adam Granger and Ben Hargrove, did it?"

"No, but it saved Logan Myers and Stuart Page." Rossi rebutted, before softly adding, "And it might just save you."

JJ wasn't so sure about that, but she took it anyway and tossed it atop her bag, already planning to throw it in the trash when she got home. "Thanks."

"I mean it, JJ." Rossi pressed as JJ slipped into her vehicle and rolled down the window. "Right now, the only marker of progress you have is the suicide attempt, and today. Everything else in between is a blur.-"

"-But that everything in between is the most accurate representation of the progress you're making. Keeping that book will allow you to look back and see both that which you were successful with, and that with which you weren't.-"

A small smile pulled at his aged lips then.

"-But perhaps that's why you don't want to keep it. It's difficult to bury your head in the sand when you have something to force perspective."

Mildly insulted by his bold observation, JJ stared at Rossi silently, before finally dropping her eyes in contemplation and relenting with a small, noncommittal nod. Part of her was still unsure as to what she was going to do with what had, somehow, become a journal, but she couldn't honestly say that Rossi was wrong.

Rossi nodded as he turned away, and then turned back when he happened upon one last nugget of wisdom.

"Small piece of advice: at the end of each entry, whether it be a case or just a general day, make a note of a positive point, and a negative point."

JJ parted her lips with the obvious question, and Rossi cut her off.

"There will always be a positive point – even from this case." Placing his hand against her arm, he patted it encouragingly before walking away. "Goodnight, JJ."

And when JJ returned home that night, she didn't throw that notebook in the trash, but instead capped off the first entry with this:

Negative: You messed up.
Positive: You didn't retaliate against yourself by messing up even more.