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Reid POV

I spent the entirety of the ride back with Morgan twitching nervously in my seat, straining my neck to watch as the vehicle, holding the unconscious woman, who apparently I cared more deeply for than I had previously thought, drove away into the distance. I wrung my hands together, tingeing the skin of my fingers rosy pink from a pale white. My breathing was slightly quicker than usual and my forehead light with a sheen of perspiration. I was nervous, even Morgan could see it. Hell, an idiot could see that I was a little on edge - my stomach was rolling around, my hands shaking and a little clammy, my heart pounding at nearly double its usual rate, and my pupils dilated to nearly 4mm, blackening my hazel eyes.

Derek's Chicagoan twang brought me, if only slightly, out of my trance as he asked, "I've called Hotch, he'll be at the hospital by the time we get there."

I nodded, not really paying attention, let alone truly caring what he was saying, and I went back to searching for the ambulance once more. My lips chapped and chest aching with some unexplainable weight that I felt like someone was sitting on my chest. A few moments after they had carted Charlotte into the back of the vehicle, she had passed out completely, losing consciousness and slacking in the gurney, sending my pulse racing. I had first thought she had died or something, and all reasoning left me, entirely. It was in that moment that I think I may have lost my mind, a little. It was like I was working on instinct alone, and I found myself throwing myself into the passenger's seat of Derek's car.

I wondered, idly, if this was how normal people thought - a singular train of temperament and logic, without the multitude of other scenarios that were equally plausible as well as possible. It was a strange, yet not unwelcome sensation that I half-way relished in. The paramedics assigned to Lewis seemed to begin working on double time and it took mere moments before the doors were slammed closed and the car drove away.

Morgan and I pulled into the underground car park of the NY Presbyterian Hospital and began searching for vacant spots, which was proving to be a trying and very irritating task. Finally, we found on, in the corner of the lowest level, and we caught the elevator up onto the ground floor of the hospital. We hastily approached up towards the receptionist, and as soon as we arrived, I pulled out my badge and almost ordered, "Dr Reid, we're with the BAU, we're looking for the room of a Charlotte Lewis."

She clicked away at her keyboard for a moment, and replied, almost monotonously, "Room 246, second floor."

I nodded, and swiftly walked towards the nearest elevator. I tapped my foot, along to a quick-paced rhythmic tune I had overheard a few years ago to take my mind off of the gaping hole in my chest. I rubbed at the spot directly above my heart, in an attempt to quell the stinging sensation that resided there. The ding of the approaching elevator tore my mind from my figurative ailment and we stepped inside, noticing how rickety and unstable the contraption felt beneath our feet. I hated elevators. As a matter of fact, I disliked technology of any kind, but even someone as techno-phobic as I am realises and appreciates the positive electronics does for society. The doors whirred as they rolled opened and Morgan and I stepped out, glancing around and locating Hotch and Rossi sitting on a pair of light blue, plastic seats. Upon our approach, Rossi stood and filled us in on Lewis' condition.

He spoke quickly and professionally, if not a bit too impassively to be fully convincing, "She's in surgery right now, they say she'll have to be put under medically. I couldn't imagine the pain she's experienced, I really cant," he paused for a moment, and after a deep breath, he continued, "He was drugging her. There were high levels of ketamine and lorazepam found in her system."

I clenched my fists as a rush of pure rage passed through my spirit, and I wanted nothing more than to bring Adams back from the dead and tear his worthless throat out with my bare hands. The similarities in what I experienced and what she had been through made me feel more than a little bit protective of her, and I felt my blood pressure sky-rocket. My heart constricted tightly in my chest, and I knew that I was more than stressed out, and over a girl I had barely known for, what, a week? This infatuation was beyond juvenile and immature yet I didn't care. That was the end of it - I just didn't care, and that was beyond fine with me. I wanted her to be safe; she needed to be safe.

I glanced at her closed room door and wondered how long it would take for her to return, and send us a shining smile with her big, grey eyes that I've grown fond of. Morgan had gone off to get a cup of coffee while I took the seat nearest to Hotch. I looked over at Rossi and asked, fearing his answer, "Do you think she'll make it?"

He glanced up at me, and replied, "Yeah, I think so. She'll be okay - she's too hard-assed to give up like this. She'll be fine, kid."

I smiled, a little dishevelled but glad for the distraction and also, for the optimism that Rossi provided, even though I could tell he was a little apprehensive himself. It was very much needed and appreciated in this sort of situation. I crossed my ankles and watched as my worn down Converse scuffed against the clean, laminated floors, leaving dirt tracks on the marble. I tried to make as little noise as possible, so no tapping, rocking or humming. That left me with more or less nothing to do, and I fought for a way to keep myself occupied during the time we waited.

Which turned out to be little over 4 hours.

By the time a doctor, a lovely, fair-faced 30-something woman by the name of Helen Schmitt, came around and informed us that Charlotte was out of surgery, and on her way down from the ICU to here. Another elevator pinged once more, and the door shuffled open to reveal a still, comatose and cadaver-looking Charlotte on a wide-spaced gurney of sorts attached to a mobile IV, and was wheeled down the lobby, towards us, and finally into the room, which when opened smelled like bleach and clean linen. I always hated the smell of hospitals - they reminded me too much of my mother.

There was a bandage wrapped rightly around her head, her hair still knotted and caked with her own blood and sweat. Both of her eyes were closed, yet the skin around her lids were deep purple and swollen, a few scratches scattered around her face, and her lip was inflamed and cut in a few places. The sheet she was lying under was tucked beneath her arms and her hands were, also, bound with bandages, from the knuckle down, and the little finger of her right hand was strapped to her ringer, as it had been broken somehow during the ordeal. My blood boiled with unresolved fury at the thought of someone hurting her, and I felt physically sick with rage.

She was wheeled into the room, and slid into the bed from the surgery gurney by a few members of staff and connected via tubes and wiring to all the correct machinery, a constant beeping told us of her steady, strong heartbeat. I took the seat nearest the window, the breeze was a welcomed friend, taking my mind off of the heat thrusting through my being, Morgan standing, stiffly, next to me, Hotch and Rossi on either side of her bed. JJ and Prentiss were emptying out their hotel rooms, us four having made sure we had our go-bags packed and waiting, securely, in the back of the SUV we had rented.

Doctor Schmitt said, courteously and professionally, "She suffered bruising to her frontal lobe from repeated, severe beatings. She had four broken ribs, one of which punctured her right lung, causing pulmonary haemorrhaging - or bleeding inside her lungs, so we had to patch her up. Her pinkie finger was broken and the skin on her palms and the side of her fist were split and had to be stitched up. She had over 130 separate incisions made all over her body, some shallow and other rather deep, probably leaving scarred tissue. She lost a lot of blood, and we had to give her a blood transfusion, which is going to take some time for her body to adjust to. This is where the medically induced coma comes in to play."

"The psychological trauma she suffered is extensive, more so than her physical, as a matter of fact. There are contusions on her frontal lobes is going to affect her ability to retrieve memories, rather than to make new ones. Her legs were the main problem, however. He bludgeoned her thighs, calves and feet with a blunt object, pulping the muscle and tissue inside and rendering it next to impossible for her to apply pressure, let alone actually walk without experiencing mind-numbing pain. She has to stay under for a few days, and we'll examine her condition and inform you as soon as there is any change in her circumstance - I suggest you all go home, it's going to be a long wait," she finished, with a sad dim shining in her eyes, and the unwelcome, unwanted thought that Charlotte may never wake up slithered into my head.

I couldn't move. I couldn't even breathe. I barely blinked as I settled into the uncomfortable plastic chair, and the rest of the team nodded, solemnly, and after she left, Hotch addressed the rest of us by saying, "We should get back to Virginia. We can't stop working," and he glanced at me, worry written all over his face. He added, "Rossi.. Do you mind staying here and keeping us informed?"

Rossi nodded affirmatively, and Hotch glanced at Morgan and I and indicated that we should exit the room. I have to be honest, I was a little bit more than hard-pressed to leave her side, so to placate the nagging in the back of my mind, I rubbed her hand, softly as to not injure her any more, and, ignoring the curious stares from the others in the room, I leant in, disregarding her bruised exterior, and whispered lowly in her ear, "I.. I need you to wake up soon, please? I'll see you soon.." and hesitantly, I breathed, my heart pounding now as though I were declaring some kind of a secret, "Sweetheart."