A/N: hey what do ya know, another chapter! so i was writing this bit and i was actually on the verge of tears, which never happens to me! anyways, enjoy ^_^

~MBL xx

13 HOURS SINCE MISSING

Rape. Rape.

The word swirled around JJ's head like a horrible cyclone, banging against her skull, torturing her.

Holly was raped, and JJ had no idea. She couldn't help but feeling like she was a failure at a best friend. Now she looked back, the signs were so obvious, and JJ hadn't said a word, what kind of friend does that make her? She remembered Holly causing a scene the morning after the soccer match, and disappearing for a week. She remembered the night she popped by Holly's house, comforting her while she cried over a bottle of bourbon.

Maybe JJ just didn't want to see Holly as a victim?

Holly was never a victim, she was always the kind of person who stuck up for themself and if you got on her bad side, you'd know it. JJ still couldn't comprehend that her friend was in fact a victim.

She cupped a hand to her mouth, finally regaining her mobile functions, and started taking a few steps back.

Reid turned to her, an inquisitorial look on his face. "JJ, are you okay?" He asked. Everybody turned to look at her, matching looks on their faces.

JJ just shook her head, still backing away. "I need some air," she whispered hoarsely, turning to exit the suddenly smaller room.

"Do you want some comp-" Morgan began.

"No," she interrupted, not looking back. "No, please. I just need some air." Without another word, she made her way to the bullpen, grabbing her jacket and Holly's go-bag from her desk and went outside, looking for some place to sit down.

She finally found a bench in the middle of a park nearby and made her way over. The sun's rays were beginning to cast an orange hue over the park, and it was empty save for a few dog walkers on the other side. She sat down on the bench, opening Holly's bag and peering in.

This was an extreme invasion of privacy, JJ knew it, but given these circumstances, she needed to check everything, especially find out how Holly knows a man who's practically a ghost.

She found the usual things an agent would have in their go-bag; change of clothes, toiletries, charger for her phone, all that, but JJ noticed the immense lack of personal items. Sure, she found the photo frame from earlier, but nothing else was found in there. JJ knew that everybody had to have a few personal items, they were probably stashed, more likely than not.

She looked for an inside zipper somewhere in the bag, finally finding a small hole in the crease of the bag. Taking a deep breath, she tentatively pulled the small zip and reached inside the pocket, long slender fingers enclosing on a thick piece of paper.

She pulled it out, confusion etched across her face, only for her brow to furrow further when she realized she was holding a blank envelope with the back sealed. The paper was old and quite yellowy; it must have been at least ten years old. Lips pursed and brow furrowed in anticipation, the flipped the envelope over and opened it, revealing a two paged scrunched up letter written in Holly's familiar scrawl. Smudges were present on the writing with what the blond profiler could only assume to be tears. JJ could see it was addressed to her so intrigued, she smoothened it out and began to read.

Jareau,

God, there are so many things I wanna say to you, but I don't know how I'm even going to begin.

First off, I want to thank you for being my sister. Thank you for being there for me when no one could, because you were the only reason why I even kept living.

I don't know if I'm actually going to give this to you, because you know how much I hate to convey feelings, and let's be honest, I'm pretty shit at it. If you are in fact reading this, this letter will explain a lot, and if you aren't, 1) I'm crazy, 2) this would be a good way to vent, I suppose.

I guess I should begin from the start, right? That's generally the best way to go.

I didn't want to move here. But my parents thought it would be 'refreshing and inspirational' for me. I wasn't a good kid then either, just picture me a little bit worse because, believe it or not, that happens.

Moving to a new country at the age of fifteen is never easy, I can promise you that. You're forced to make new friends, forced to life in a completely new city. I'm not gonna lie, I really did not want to go.

But I'll never forget you on my first day. I had made a rude-ass comment to one of your skinny bitch friends and she threw spaghetti in my face. It took all of my strength to not leap over the table and strangle her then and there. It wasn't like I cared what she thought – that was my favorite hoodie (hey look at that, I'm finally getting the hang of American writing). I slowly walked to the bathroom and grabbed like fifty paper towels to try and wipe off the sauce when I heard you enter the bathroom. You apologized for something you had no part in and offered to loan me one of your hoodies. I remember feeling a bit confused because I had just insulted your friend and you had been so nice to me.

I'll never forget that.

And we began to grow closer and I finally opened up to you, showed you the real me. You're the only person I've ever sung to, you know that? Sure, I played the old six-string at the bar, but I've never sung to anyone, not even my family. I never will.

You finally convinced me to join the soccer team after much pressuring and bribing (I still have the picture frame, by the way, I put a photo of us in it from the championship game), and I was put into the varsity team with you.

Suddenly, life wasn't so bad, you and I were the dynamic duo, we managed to get a bit popular, and I'll admit I'm not too proud of bullying a few freshmen in my time. You were my rock, JJ, you always keep me grounded and pulled me back in line. For that I love you, so much.

Then the accident happened. God, I don't even know what was going through my head; I guess I just wanted to have a good time. But I got out of control really fast, even you couldn't control me. As much as I wish that party never happened, I don't blame it – it was a good night – because I would've found another way to fuck up and end up with my family dead.

Thank you for calling my family, I don't know what I would've done at that party if I wasn't taken away.

Did I ever tell you what we were arguing about? Me, as usual. The last thing my mother said to me was I was tearing the family apart, and the last thing I said to my family was I hated them.

I hated them, Jayje. The last thing I told them was I fucking hate them, what kind of daughter and sister does that make me?

Maybe if I wasn't needed to identify the bodies of my dead brother and mother, or had to turn off my father's life support, maybe I wouldn't be so fucked up.

Maybe.

I don't know if you know this, but I was diagnosed with clinical depression afterwards, and needed meds. I hated them, they would make my mind go foggy and the fact I had anti-depressants showed just how fucked up I really was.

I met another guy during the support group I had to go to, his name was Charlie. He was funny and sweet and maybe in his twenties. After every session, we'd go down to the hospital café (where the coffee tasted like shit, by the way) and talk for hours just over a cup of coffee.

We were both dismissed on the same day, and then you picked me up with Gramps.

You know how difficult it was for a sixty-three year old man to take care of a seventeen year old, so I suggested I'd stay at my own place, to which good old Robbie didn't object.

Life was hell at home, everywhere I turned was a new memory, haunting me, giving me flashbacks. What do they call it now? We learnt it in History. PTSD, previously referred to as shell-shock syndrome after WWI. I don't know, I suppose if I was suffering from anything, it was that: I'd get hallucinations and flashbacks and I couldn't get in a car for two weeks. And you know how my life was outside my house.

The only thing that kept me going was you and Charlie. I would go over to his family home – his parents died as well – and we would talk and make out.

When you'd spot my hickeys and I'd say "all good, we didn't fuck or anything", it was the truth.

Then it was the championship game, we had just turned eighteen with no deaths occurring, so I was pretty stoked (I've told you once and I'll say it again: that means elated). Remember that photo we have of you and I before the match? That's what I have in that little frame of yours, it seemed to fit. You passing me the ball, letting me take the shot when you were clear sent me into overdrive, and that feeling of both of us on everyone's shoulders when the final siren rang was breathtaking.

I'll confess, I already had the party planned, how could we lose? We started setting up and I told you I needed to check the lights, that was a lie. Charlie sent me a text, telling me he needed to talk to me. We got into an argument and the next thing I know he's dragging me to his car.

He took me to his apartment, Jennifer. He raped me.

That's why I've been locked up for a few weeks – I don't know, I've lost count – and that's why I'm writing this letter.

I'm leaving, JJ, and I hate to say it, but I won't be coming back, I can't. I'm going to live with my mum (or mom)'s side of the family back in Australia.

Please, don't try to convince me otherwise, I'm already about to break down.

I love you.

A/N - hi feels, how ya doing? anyway, i just realised i can't actually do that strikethrough i usually do before and after i write time spent missing, if anyone can tell me how to get that back, ill write a head canon just for you and another chapter up asap.

~MBL xx