A/N: So sorry about the delay. With fanfiction down on Friday, classes, and sickness, I haven't had the time to upload. I'm generally shitty about remembering to upload, too. Sorry about that. Emjoy!

This was the last place in the world Bevery Katz wanted to be. She had responsibilities, the most important being analyzing the evidence of Will's case. When she had tried to explain this to Jack, he had told her it was the best thing for the case and the best thing for Will.

They treated that man like a damn china doll. He was tough. He survived months in the field with a condition that drove lesser completely insane.

None of them thought Will capable of murder. Bev analyzed the facts. The facts said Will was more than capable, and he had been doing it right under the nose of the FBI for months. No one would dare doubt Behavioral Science's shining star, though. They patted him on the head and sent him off the therapy. He very well could have lied to them all, but they were still catering to his every whim.

That wasn't to say she didn't like Will. They were friends. She simply hated how he was being treated. He should be treated like a serial killer. Jack argued he should be treated as a sick, but gifted FBI agent. He also told Bev to keep her opinions to herself. She had never been fond of doing that.

After an agonizing twenty minutes in the waiting room, Bev was finally called down by an orderly. He tried to create small talk, but Bev quickly shut down all of his attempts at conversation. Eventually, he surrendered, and they walked through the halls in silence. He opened the heavy doors to the maximum security ward where Will was being held.

She walked quickly down the hall. 3 hours of her day was being dedicated to this errand. Hannibal both lived and worked in Baltimore. He had to have an assistant. Jack had shut down all of her logic. Logic that apparently meant nothing when it came to his prize. She shouldn't be surprised. She needed to let it go; this really wasn't Will's fault.

Well. The waste of time. All evidence pointed to him belonging in one of these cells no matter what Jack and Alana wanted to believe. It was going to be impossible to get him out of here.

She walked up to the cell to find Will standing up from the corner of the room. It looked like he was just waking up, but he was nowhere near his bed.

"Have a nice nap?" Bev asked, holding the files close to her.

He shook his head "I wasn't sleeping." He left it there.

"Thinking?"

"Always," he answered. "I didn't think anyone was coming today."

"Well, I have your information. I don't know why you want it, but I was told not to ask questions." She accompanied the sentence with a look that made it clear she was asking why.

"I need to figure out who did this," he replied, pushing his food tray towards the hallway. Bev continued to hold onto the papers.

"You did this."

"Maybe I did. But I need to prove that."

"During processing, you said you just interpreted the evidence. All of the evidence points to you belonging in here." Bev crossed her arms. "What changed?"

"I don't feel like I have seen all of the evidence."

"You have. You were at the crime scenes."

"I was looking for a killer there. I was looking for someone else."

"And now you need to see if you can find yourself."

Will nodded. She put the thick folder into the slot. He didn't pull it back into the cell, watching Bev instead. They stared at each other for a moment, and it occurred to Bev how wrong it was to see him standing behind these bars. She could see why the evidence was so hard to believe; why Jack, Alana, Hannibal–three of the most intelligent people she had ever had the privilege of working with–doubted the evidence that was right in front of them.

"Why did they send you?" Will questioned, breaking their silence. "I thought there was a pretty limited list of people that were allowed to see me."

"The interim director is a lot… weaker willed than Chilton, so he was easy to get around. A flash of an FBI badge and a mention of Jack Crawford, and he is more than willing to let anyone in."

"Flaw in their security. I'd rather have him than Chilton, though. I think he is afraid of me." Will shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. His amusement wasn't in the man's fear, Bev knew Will wouldn't delight in that, but rather something darker that only he could see. It made Bev shudder.

"I think he is afraid of all of you," she muttered.

"Chilton was."

"He was different, though. He was a coward. He tried to make his prisoners less harmless through answers, regardless of their accuracy. This man is just afraid and far less dangerous. I worry about you when Chilton is recovered enough to take his position back."

Will didn't offer a comment.

"You didn't answer my question." She looked down. She had avoided doing that for a reason. Of course he noticed. There was very little he didn't. "Why did they send you?"

"They wanted someone a bit more distant from your case."

"I hope that you are not distant. You, Jimmy, and Brian are the best we have. Jack knows that, and I'm sure he wants you working around the clock on this."

"There are still cases. Killers don't stop killing just because Will Graham is in prison."

"I don't expect them too."

"You always took time alone at the crime scene, used it to recreate the killer's actions. Will you be able to do that with just photos?" she asked to change the subject.

"I'll give you answers if you do the same," he responded, leaning against the wall.

"Fine. They told me I was going for the exact same reason I told you."

"You don't think that's true." Bev folded her arms and looked right at Will.

"I am almost positive they sent me because I think you killed those people. They wanted me to come in here, see what a precious piece of china you are, and come out with my tail between my legs. I'm sure Hannibal told Jack having me believe you are innocent is the only way I will fight to get you out of here," she explained.

"I don't know why they still think you are going to keep your mouth shut around me. You never have in the past." He grinned, and it actually seemed genuine. She wondered when the last time a real smile had crossed his face was. "So you're helping me as your friend, then?"

"Seeing you in prison isn't going to appeal to my sympathies and friendship doesn't make me want to set free a serial killer."

"Then why are you still on the case?"

Bev smiled. "I want to see where it goes. I want to be the one that convicts you or the one that finds a discrepancy in the evidence. I want to treat you like you were anyone else."

"Thank you," Will said. He pulled the food tray towards him and removed his folder.

"For what?"

"I think you are the only person that sees it how I do. Jack is convinced I am innocent. Alana wants to prove I was innocent or at least have no recollection of the murders. Hannibal just wants me to get better. I want to treat this like any other case."

"I thought as much."

"But that's not why you are doing it," Will objected, skimming through the pages. "You're not doing it because you know that's how I am thinking."

"I'm doing it because it is the only way to think that allows room for the truth. I still consider myself your friend, but I do not care about your feelings when it comes to this case. I want to know your thoughts, your facts, but keep your feelings out of this. That's why you have a therapist."

"Thank you, Bev. I know this isn't easy."

"For the files? It isn't a big deal."

"No. For just being my friend. Nothing more." He turned back to the beginning to the file. She could tell he was losing himself in the work.

"Well, you're welcome." She stepped back. "I'm going to head out."

"I never answered your question."

"I think I know. You've seen enough. It's time to step back." He nodded in response. Bev walked back down the hallway, glancing back at him once. No goodbyes. He is lost in his work, something only he can do.

Jack was wrong. Talking to Will as bluntly as she did didn't hurt. In fact, Bev believed he needed to hear it from someone, and it might as well be her. Everyone else was afraid.

A third type of fear. Not the cowardice of Chilton or the nervousness of this director. This was the fear of loss. This was often the most crippling.

She refused to let it get to her. She just hoped Will kept the same policy.

Will put the files down on his desk. He looked up at his blank walls and pressed his eyebrows together.

The grey concrete walls did not lend themselves well to crimes that primarily occurred in homes and outdoors. The closest was Georgia Manched in the hospital. It made him tempted to start with her case, but he knew it would be a mistake.

His best option was to chronicle the progression of his encephalitis in parallel with the crimes he was accused of committing. If he was lucky, he would be able to convince Jack to give him some of the other case files Will had worked on. It would help him fill in the gaps, find crimes that fit in with these.

If they existed.

He couldn't afford to think like that. He couldn't believe he was innocent, but he also couldn't fall into the trap that he was condemned. He needed to look at this as if it was a familiar serial killer, not the spontaneous events and copycat actions he had initially suspected they were.

The Chesapeake Ripper. The Minnesota Shrike. These would make up the foundation of his investigation. One case he hadn't solved, another where he had been lucky. He needed more than that now.

He pulled the ball of sticky tack he had been allotted off of his table and began hanging papers, photographs, and brain scans alike. He created two timelines that formed a loop on his walls, making them less barren and more haunting simultaneously.

After several hours of arranging and rearranging, Will stepped back to take in his work. The lower of the two–the one tracking his encephalitis–was far more disconcerting. The path of the killings were clear and detailed, one leading to another.

The majority of the information on his brain was lumped towards the end. He had been seeing Dr. Lecter far longer than that, and he made note to ask for anything Hannibal could release to him in their next session. If nothing else, he would take his own notes after the fact. He would ask questions to help him fill in these holes.

He always talked before. If he wanted to solve this, he was going to have to listen.

That would be a while, Will figured. They were giving him space which was why Bev had delivered the files. He appreciated it. It backed him into a corner, gave him a clear starting point.

Cassie Boyle.

He took a deep breath, the sickly sweet smell of wildflowers and grass filling his brain. He could see her body as clearly as the first time. Maybe he could lose himself in these pictures.

He stepped towards the image of her body. He touched the points where it was expertly mounted on the antlers. Marissa Schurr was found in a similar manner.

This was one of the points that continued to confuse him. Will was a fisherman, not a hunter. If he had attempted a maneuver such as this, it would have been awkward in a fully conscious mind. It was unlikely his disease was active at that point, but this was expertly done. Even ignoring the fact he could have learned for Marissa, his first attempt was too perfect.

Either someone had put a lot of thought and research into this or they had done it before.

Abigail?

She did admit to helping her father. Maybe he left behind someone to continue his work.

He didn't want that. The thoughts were racing through his mind. This was wrong. This wasn't how he worked. There were too many facts, too many connections. He needed to isolate them.

That was his issue when Hannibal had asked him to look at himself as the murderer. It had been too broad. Bev had wanted to bring it down to just the facts, but those floated through his mind refusing to latch onto anything concrete.

Will was excellent at his job because he could do what no one else could. He empathized easily with the killers.

He was reluctant.

That is what got him into this situation. It was likely it triggered his encephalitis. If he had avoided field work, he could be sitting safely in his classroom.

If he had done that, he would be preparing a lecture on the tenth, eleventh, twelfth victim of Garrett Jacob Hobbs.

Abigail Hobbs could still be alive.

Her father could have killed her.

Will stepped forward, eye level with the picture of Cassie Boyle.

He closed his eyes, surrounded by the cool breeze, chirping crickets, and sweet smells that were Cassie's last sensations.

A/N: The next chapter will be completely focused on this empathy moment! I know they last bit was filler, but I really needed a transition and the next chapter is too long to combine them.

A few things. I have an insane amount of work, so the next chapter will probably be a week from Friday, then there will be a regular posting schedule. Also, I am looking for a beta reader, so please drop me a message if you are interested. I am looking for someone relatively involved – catching my careless errors to completely rewriting the plot – that will also help me stick to a posting schedule. If I don't get anyone interested in that, just someone to help me catch foolish mistakes would be awesome. Thank you to everyone that may want to help and everyone that has left reviews. It know it is cliché, but they really are motivating.