From the Shadows

Chapter Two

"Oh, I'll be watching you, all the things that you do. Anytime, anywhere. I'll be around, I'll be waiting for the moment you fail." Gotthard- 'Anytime, Anywhere'.

Spencer's eyes were fixed to the row of leather-bound books lining the back of his desk. His elbow rested against the top of his desk, his long, thin fingers curled under his jaw. He had zoned out of everyone and everything. Spencer ran the back of his index finger up and down his stubbled chin, the coarse hair irritating his skin. His mug of coffee in front of him had long gone cold. What does 'next time' mean? I was playing against myself where there was an infinite number of possibilities and outcomes. I won and was going to win anyway. What does it mean? I don't understand. Spencer was quickly snapped out of his daze by a hand gripping his shoulder. Startled, Spencer jumped, his hand immediately reaching to his hip for his revolver. Luke Alvez stepped back, his hands raised, palms facing outwards. His dark eyebrows were raised in surprise.

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean to scare you," responded Luke. Spencer's eyes were wide and wild, his breaths coming thick and fast as his heart drummed a rapid beat into his ribs once again. It took the doctor a moment to return to the present tense. With a sigh, Spencer turned back to his desk and buried his head in his hands, his fingers entwined in his curls. Luke perched on the edge of Spencer's desk and folded his arms across his chest. Spencer tried desperately to ignore the Hispanic man beside him.

"Hey, Reid. You okay?" Spencer slowly lifted his head and allowed his hands to drop to the desk with a thud. The bright white LED lights across the frosted glass that separated JJ's and Spencer's desks highlighted the dark hollows around Spencer's eyes and underneath his razor sharp cheekbones. It quickly became obvious how exhausted the genius truly was. The last time he had such an appearance, he was in prison. His skin looked paler than usual and he appeared somewhat dishevelled.

Spencer seated himself at the visiting glass, his limbs aching from exhaustion and his mind feeling numb. David Rossi sat opposite him, the grey in his dark hair illuminated by the fluorescent lights. David folded his hands in front of him.

"You haven't slept," commented David, taking into account Spencer's rugged appearance. The bruises littering his face had turned a pale yellow/green colour. His hazel orbs looked lost. Haunted.

"It's been a while."

"I heard about your friend, Delgado. I'm really sorry, Spence. Is there anyone you can talk to?" Spencer shifted uncomfortably in his seat and briefly glanced over his shoulder.

"We have group therapy once a week. The counsellor wants me to keep a journal, so I am, but I don't really think it's working." Spencer desperately tried to avoid David's inquisitive stare.

"How come?" Spencer cleared his throat and leaned in close, keeping his voice low as though he were afraid someone would hear him.

"Because no one in here is honest. I mean... Not a single person can admit that they're terrified. If we can't agree on that one basic truth, then... It doesn't really matter."

"Reid?" Spencer snapped out of his stupor to meet Luke's questioning stare, "You okay, man?" Spencer brushed some of his hair out of his face with his palm and sighed.

"Yeah. I'm not sleeping," answered Spencer, his voice tinged with dejection.

"What's going on?"

"I just keep reliving prison. One of the downfalls of an eidetic memory, is that I can't forget every living detail, every conversation." He paused for a minute, "Every beating." For a single moment, Spencer seemed to disappear into himself. It wasn't technically a lie. Every time Spencer closed his eyes, he saw the men beating him on his cot, a towel held taut over his mouth to stifle his cries. But he couldn't tell anyone else about his stalker. After all, his best friend didn't believe him, so why would anyone else?

"Have you talked to anyone? You know we're all here for you?" Spencer shook his head softly, "Don't you think you should? It's not good for you to bottle everything up." Spencer let out an exasperated sigh.

"I know. But I don't want you to think I'm crazy." Luke quirked an eyebrow at the tired agent.

"Why would we think you're crazy?"

'You wouldn't get it." Spencer darted to his feet, his knee protesting again, as he swiftly strode to the men's bathroom, his head bowed. Luke watched him until he disappeared out of sight, the bathroom door slamming shut behind him. Dr Tara Lewis returned from the kitchenette with a steaming mug of coffee in her dark-skinned hands. She glanced back at the sound of the door thumping shut, having watched part of the exchange from afar. She jerked a thumb back towards the bathroom.

"What's that all about?" Luke simply shrugged, his eyes fixed to the door.

"I have no idea."

Spencer pressed his back to the tiles on the bathroom wall. The cold pierced through the fabric of his lavender shirt into his skin. With his back against the wall, Spencer slid down until he was seated on the gritty floor. He curled his knees up to his chest and folded his arms on top. He rested his forehead on his arms. His hair tickled his skin. He had a great family around him, and yet, he had never felt more alone. He wanted desperately to tell someone, but he expected the same response from the others that he had received from JJ. Exhaustion burned through his limbs. Someone was sure to come looking for him soon. Spencer unfurled himself and pressed his palms into the wall behind him to ease himself back up onto his feet. His legs trembled. He grasped the ceramic wash basin as if to keep himself upright. Manoeuvring himself around, Spencer caught a glimpse of his reflection. A haggard man stared back at him. His eyes which were usually dark had turned a shade of black. A thick stubble adorned his jaw. His dishevelled hair hung over his face.

"Pull yourself together," he mumbled to his reflection.

Spencer felt his limbs turn numb as he clambered up the stairs to his apartment. By some grace of a deity he had managed to dodge questions from his team. He had decided it best to tell them that he was suffering from insomnia which was making him nauseous. He wasn't lying. Rubbing the tiredness from his eyes with his left hand, Spencer pushed his key into his apartment door and stepped inside. His shoe slipped against something on his wooden floor as he crossed the threshold to his apartment. He threw out a hand to grab on to something to prevent his fall. His left knee twisted slightly, causing him to mew in pain, his hand successfully latching onto the door frame to steady himself. Spencer closed his eyes and let out a long breath that he wasn't aware he was holding in. He straightened himself back up and glared at the offending item that had caused him to slip. An envelope lay there, a dirty footprint providing a stark contrast to the white paper. Spencer's eyes widened and he gulped. Reaching down, he took the envelope into his hand and flipped it over. In the dim orange light shining through the landing window behind him, he was able to make out a familiar handwriting- Spencer.

Spencer gently pushed his apartment door shut with the tips of his tingling fingers, his eyes fixed unblinking on the envelope. He slid his satchel from his shoulder and dropped it on the floor near the coat stand. His breath caught in his throat. His fingers struggled to find the edge of the flap to open the envelope. Numbly, he tore it open. Another polaroid and note dropped at his feet. He crouched down and gathered the items up. The polaroid showed him approaching his car in the parking lot outside of his apartment block. In the image, he was wearing black dress trousers with a lavender button down shirt, navy silk tie and black blazer. Spencer gulped. This was taken this morning on my way to work. Spencer nervously glanced around. His eyes scanned the note. "Lavender looks good on you. You know what else does? A pair of handcuffs." Spencer's hands trembled. Clearly this was the work of someone sadistic. Whoever this is holds a vendetta against me. Most likely the family member of an unsub I've caught. Those possibilities are endless. I've arrested hundreds, if not thousands of unsubs. A second polaroid appeared to be wedged in the fold of the envelope. Spencer frowned as he slid it out. It was a photograph of him being led out of the court room in handcuffs. Spencer's breath hitched in his throat. How did they get this? He could feel himself hyperventilating. He had to show the letters to someone. Deciding that he would wait and take them to his unit chief the next morning, Spencer carried the envelope to his room and unlocked his safe, sliding the letter inside next to the previous one. Black spots danced in front of his eyes at the tightening of his chest. He was in danger and he knew it.