When the Levee Breaks

In a mad world only the mad are sane.

Akira Kurosawa

SIXTEEN

Footsteps had awoken him early that morning. He hadn't expected his captive to escape her bounds. He didn't like unexpected things happening. They made him feel as though he wasn't in control. He made a mental note to incapacitate the rest properly.

She had gotten a call out to her colleagues. He'd found her in the study, whispering urgently into the phone. She must have heard him coming, as she dropped then phone and blocked his attack. It had been the same arm with which she'd blocked his attack the previous night, and she groaned in pain as the broken bone shifted.

She lifted the other arm – there was a knife in her hand. She had some skill with the knife, but that arm too was near incapacitation. She sliced across his shoulder, blood streaking the stark white pyjamas.

'Bitch,' he muttered, and kicked her legs out from under her. She fell into the nearby desk, knocking computer equipment everywhere. Out of sheer desperation, she threw a keyboard at him. It made a strange clunking sound as it struck him hard across the face. In another circumstance, she might have found it amusing.

She tried to get up, but her body failed her. Even adrenaline had its limits. Still, not wanting to take his chances, the unsub pressed a foot into her freshly bleeding gunshot wound. She gritted her teeth and tried not to make a sound, though the pain was unbearable.

He picked up the phone, which had been knocked off the desk. 'I hope you said good-bye to your friend.'

He hung up, and then kicked her into unconsciousness.

The team found that there was nothing more that they could do until the start of business hours. Urgent though it was, they doubted that any witnesses would appreciate being awoken at the crack of dawn to answer questions. So for a lack of anything better to do, they were sleeping. Or at the very least, trying to.

Morgan had already fallen into a deep slumber. He had been reluctant, but the painkillers still in his system had overridden any such desires. Garcia was lying on his good shoulder, eyes red with tears. She had panicked when running the trace; it had taken three tries to get it running, and by the time it was, the unsub had hung up. They had narrowed it down to a ten mile radius, but even that was a needle in a haystack.

JJ's face mirrored Garcia's, though her eyes were shut, and she was breathing heavily. She had fallen asleep before anyone had the chance to make the suggestion that she lie down, and now that she was asleep, they didn't want to move her. She had been crying more than anyone, giving the excuse that hormones were having an effect.

'I feel guilty, almost,' she had confided in Hotch a few hours earlier. Before the phone call. 'I've been focussing so much on the baby, and Will, that I haven't had time to spend time with my friends. And now I might not get a chance to.'

It was natural that they all felt guilty. It had happened when Elle was shot, when Reid was kidnapped. Everyone on the team felt that they could have done something to prevent a bad thing from happening. The truth was that bad things were going to happen whether they liked it or not.

Hotch had tried to comfort JJ, but he was struggling with his own guilt. Was he that bad of a supervisor that Emily had felt she couldn't entrust him with her secrets? Perhaps, if she felt that she'd been able to trust him, she wouldn't have been taken.

'You couldn't have stopped it,' said Rossi softly, noticing the tired, stressed and above all, guilty look on Hotch's face. Hotch gave a wan smile at the attempted reassurance, and then went back to looking guilty.

Rossi's expression was empty; if he was feeling anything, he wasn't showing it.

Reid had been having nightmares since his time at the compound. Part of it had been Emily's actions, but for the most part, it was Cyrus. He had felt a strange connection with the narcissistic cult leader, in spite of the horrific things he had done. He knew the nightmares would change if he drifted into REM sleep. No longer the sound of gunfire, the subsequent explosion. The next time he slept, he would hear whimpering, the sound of glass smashing. The same sounds he had heard in the compound, and on the phone again this morning. Even if he closed his eyes, he'd hear it.

Six months ago, at a time like this he would have been craving the Dilaudid. Fingers twitching, wanting to plunge the needle into his arm without a second thought. He didn't even feel the urge, now. The fear overshadowed that desire.

A/N: Here's a look at what the rest of the team are feeling. For those of you wondering whether I'd killed Emily, don't think it'd happen that easily. She's stronger than that. Peace out. tfm.