Counting
The hum of computers hung like pipe smoke over the BAU. It was a loud, unnatural sound, yet it seemed to lull the agents into a lazy trance as they swayed too and fro on their office chairs, mumbling quietly to themselves. If you were to try especially hard, you could hear their voices under the stagnant buzz. But the agents of the Behavioral Analysis Unit were very peculiar…
"… One thousand twenty two, one thousand twenty three…"
"…Nine hundred eighty seven, Nine hundred eighty eight…"
Yes, very peculiar indeed.
"… One thousand thirty five…. No, wait… one thousand twenty five…"
"Huh. Did you know that over – "
"No numbers!" Both Morgan and Prentice shouted together.
"Why not?" Reid pouted, having just found a very interesting statistic about the ratio of people who preferred peanut butter rather than jam.
"Counting." Derek pointed out the obvious, resuming his chant at nine hundred and ninety four.
"Counting what?" Reid peeled himself off of his chair to look at the object of his co-workers constant mumblings. It was a computer screen full of periods. "You're counting punctuation marks?"
Prentice nodded, mouthing the numbers to herself.
"Um, why, exactly?" This was strange, even for them.
Morgan did the talking again. "We're trying to see how many periods can fit into one page on Microsoft word."
Wow, they really are out of their minds bored, Reid reflected as he sat back down in front of his own monitor and started typing again.
"Are you guys in twelve point font, times new roman?" he asked.
"Yes Reid, we are." Reid used his super profiling skills to deduce that Morgan was getting annoyed with all the interruptions.
"Four thousand, nine hundred sixty two." He rattled off, grinning.
"Dang it kid! I lost my place, now I'm going to have to start over!" Derek growled.
"No, you won't have to start over. The answer is four thousand nine hundred sixty two."
"What, you counted all that already?"
"Yep."
"You suck man."
"Riiight…"
Emily didn't seem to notice their entire conversation. She just sat there, counting, and dreaming slightly. The dream was strange though – she was counting sheep that looked strangely like fluffy commas jump over the fence, laughing at them and cooing to them at intervals. Then, suddenly, she was in a little Bo Peep outfit and got the distinct feeling that she had to run now. So she picked up her skirts and started to skip, but the comma sheep started to follow her. Emily didn't like it, she didn't like it when sheep followed her home. She started to run, faster and faster and faster, until she got tackled by a lamb, which sat on her stomach, bleating and wheezing. After what seemed to be an eternity, none other than Wayne Gretzky picked it off as if it were a dust bunny, not the one ton hunk of mutton that had been weighing Prentice down. Gretzky paraded the lamb through hundreds of different – yet strangely the same – snowy landscapes with Emily in tow, grinning like a maniac the whole time.
Emily woke with a start, face on the keyboard, drooling. Note to self: No more clodhoppers. When her eyes focused again, she realized how very close Garcia's nose was to her face. And how very red that nose was. And how very distressed the owner of that nose seemed to be.
"You need to read this!!" Penelope screeched, waving a file in front of Emily's face.
There were two booklets in the folder. The thick, intimidating one was titled "The Canadian Chesterfields Association" and the other was called "The Story of My Life".
"This isn't a good thing," Garcia nearly sobbed, "But we've finally got work to do."
So that's that! Hope you like it. Please please please review, praise, critique, anything! Look at me. I'm begging.
Also, I don't own Criminal Minds. I don't even own a criminal mind, even though some of my friends might beg to differ. I have a habit of stealing cookies ever so sneakily.