Unknown- A Criminal Minds Fanfic

Chapter 24- Protocol For Not Following Protocol

The next morning, thankfully, was a Saturday, and since I was no longer allowed in the field, I wasn't gone on a case.  But since we had just gotten back from a case, most likely everyone else had the day off, too.

Around eleven, I got off the couch. I had slept there last night; I didn't trust the dark enough to sleep in my bedroom after my stalker had, most likely, been watching through the window.  I'd even locked my bedroom door when I'd never had to before.  One of the perks, or, considering the circumstances, downfalls, of living alone was a lot of privacy.

I made myself some breakfast--brunch?--and then took a shower, doing some banking before feeding Mrs. Mulcahy's cats on my way out.  My car had started working again after leaving it sit in the parking lot of the FBI building for a week, so I took that instead of my bike.  Honestly, I was surprised my car hadn't been towed, but I had a feeling Reid had talked to Morgan and Morgan had had a few words with security to let it sit.

I stopped at the DMV to drop off my check for the two parking tickets I had and then headed to a store.  I bought a small safe and a home security system kit before getting a few other essentials--like toilet paper and groceries--and then stopping at a fast food joint on my way home.

I spent the rest of the afternoon installing a home security system and making room in the cabinet under my nightstand for the safe, though I had a feeling I wouldn't be sleeping with my gun locked in it until I managed to find out who my stalker was and get him locked up, instead.  I spent the remainder of the evening researching information on different types of guard dogs.  Having one of those would make it a lot easier for me to sleep at night, and I had always wanted a dog.

Aside from the constant worry I had shoved to the back of my mind, most of Sunday passed without incident, until my phone rang around nine o'clock Sunday night.  It was another unknown number.

I took a deep breath before answering it, on instinct demanding, "Who are you?"

"I think you know who I am," the unfamiliar voice answered.  I had heard it once before, though, when he'd first called me.

"You're a psychopath who's obsessed with me," I hissed into the phone, sounding a lot braver than the quivering in my stomach would have lead me to believe.

"Obsessed?  No, merely intrigued.  Quite a fascinating life you have, Charlotte.  I know more about you than you think," he mused, his voice cold but nonchalant.

I forced my voice to steady and answered evenly, "If you knew anything, you'd know I hate being called Charlotte."

The name sounded even worse slipping off his tongue than it had when I had repeated it.

"Of course you do," he answered, and I could almost picture the amused sneer on his blurred face as a malicious chuckle grated through the phone, cut as short as his call when he abruptly hung up the phone.

Numbly, I lowered my phone from my ear, pressing the end call button. 

I gritted my teeth and then slammed the phone down on the couch cushion next to me, lunging for a yellow legal pad and a pen I had left sitting on the coffee table.  I scribbled down our brief conversation verbatim, tearing out the sheet and then writing on the next one the two sentences he had spoken to me early Saturday morning.  Snatching them up, I added them to the stack of letters I had stuffed in the bottom of one of my desk drawers and then powered up my laptop, printing out the first three emails that had started this whole nightmare.

I sat on the floor in the middle of the hallway and spread them out on the carpet around me, arranging them from left to right in the order I had gotten them.  I stayed up nearly all night poring over the text, the words,  the threats and all of the deadly underlying messages the diction and syntax implied. 

I jerked awake, my cheek prickly from being smushed against the carpet where I had fallen asleep.  My eyes hurt, my head ached, and I couldn't even remember what I was doing until I spotted the crumpled, creased, and unfolded sheets of paper around me. 

I glanced at the clock hanging on the wall above the armchair. The last time I remembered looking at it, it had been 7:21 in the morning.  Now it was 8:03, and I had to be at work in seventeen minutes.

"Shit!" I shouted as I scrambled to my feet, dashing to my bedroom to change clothes.  Deodorant and mouthwash was all I had time for before I was rushing out the door, not even bothering with a jacket and finger-combing my short hair as I sped down two flights of stairs.

At eight forty-four, I slipped into the elevator with Morgan right before the doors slid closed.

He glanced me over and then asked, "Late night?"

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the polished stainless steel walls of the elevator car and realized I was wearing ripped jeans and a vintage band tee with my combat boots.  Not quite appropriate work attire, but I hadn't been thinking about work when I'd gotten ready in under five minutes.

"What's your excuse everyday, then?" I quipped.

"Fair point," he menially agreed.  I was a little taken aback, usually he wasn't so...agreeable with me.

"Any idea what this case is about?" he asked me, gesturing to his phone.  He must have gotten a text from someone else on the team.

"I'm on desk duty, I'm not allowed in the field for a week," I flatly explained.

"Why'd Hotch suspend you?" Morgan asked, clearly confused.  If he hadn't heard about it, then none of the team must've.

I simply replied, "Protocol for not following protocol."

A ding sounded as the elevator doors opened, and I walked with him into the bullpen.

He nodded in response to my explanation and then remarked, "Hotch can be a hard-ass sometimes, but he means well.  It may not follow protocol, but you did the right thing the other day. Besides, now Pretty Boy can keep you company, right, rookie?" Morgan added, messing up Reid's hair as he dropped his stuff at his desk.

Reid shot him a glare, having only heard the last sentence he had spoken, swiping Morgan's hands away with his right hand.  His left was still incapacitated in a sling.  Looks like he was on desk duty because of an injury, not for punishment.

Morgan grabbed the case file that had been left on his desk--I noted that Reid nor I had one--and disappeared into the conference room.

"I thought you said you hadn't gotten hurt," Reid protested when I had sat down at my desk across the aisle from him.

"I didn't," I lied.  "I'm suspended cause I got you hurt on the job, and I wasn't wearing a vest, among other things," I explained.  Apparently I hadn't hid the guilt I was feeling very well, if Reid's face after he heard what I'd said was any indication.

"It wasn't your fault, it could have happened to anyone.  I'm lucky you were thinking quick enough to keep me and that little girl out of the line of fire," he argued.

"My fault or not, I'm still on desk duty, so I suggest you teach me how to actually file things so Hotch doesn't extend my sentence," I teased, changing the subject. 

I had had enough of this pity thing, from Morgan and especially from Reid.  He should have been the most upset with me.

However, I was getting used to being stuck with Reid all the time.  Except when the team spotted us heading to the file room with stacks of manila folders in my arms, then their looks suggested it was more deliberate than I would have liked to believe.

Morgan even winked and remarked suggestively, "Have fun, kids."

"Morgan, if you--" I started, but they had already walked past us and there was no point in completing my threat.