lullabies through the window

Eleven: Empty Hands, Bloodied Hands

"Is Mark Adams still in the interrogation room?" Hotch asked. The team could tell how tired he was. They had so much to go on, and yet a location was impossible to find? Everybody felt stressed and worried. The tensity seemed to leer and grin from Spencer's chair. 

"Yeah, he's still there. I think they're still considering whether to put him in protective custody or not." Morgan rubbed the back of his head. 

Hotch nodded. "We need him to tell us exactly what he did to the unsubs and see if he knows anything about them that we don't."

"Blood results are back." Penelope called from the other side of the room. The team looked up at her expectantly. "Although we pretty much already knew, the blood test confirms that the person shot in Spencer's apartment was Amber Richards."

"Thanks, PG." Emily said as she sifted through a stack of papers.

"I can go talk to Adams." Rossi stood up.

"I'll come, too. Just in case." JJ followed him out of the room. Looking through the same file over and over was doing nothing. Even if she wasn't doing the interrogation, watching it felt more productive. Meanwhile the rest of the team stared hopelessly at their case files and other records. Emily finally leaned back and flung her hands in the air.

"We know who did it, we know their goal, we know their trigger and patterns! We know their blood type and social security numbers, but somehow we can't find where they live right now?"

Earlier that morning, they had found an address and searched it. Unfortunately, the unsubs had moved out about three weeks before. They knew that, but at least hoped to get some information: from the house, or the neighbors. But they turned up absolutely empty handed. 

Spencer had been missing for almost eleven hours. They had been searching for that same amount of time. Nothing had moved forward.  

Spencer's chair was still regretfully empty.

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A light flashed on over Spencer's closed eyes, making them shoot open. His shoulder pulsed painfully, and his whole arm was stiff and burning. He moved his head warily from side to side. He scanned his surroundings. He had been right: he was in an operating room. 

"That... doesn't bode well." He thought tiredly. 

"Okay, Spencer, I hear you're a doctor." A voice said. Needless to say, it distracted him from the pain in his shoulder.

Spencer couldn't raise his head to see her, so instead talked to the wall, averting his eyes from the blinding light. "S-Sarah?" He guessed. 

"Yeah, that's me. Now, I heard you're a doctor?" She asked, walking over to him and slowly unlocking the cuffs that held him to the table.

"Yes."

"Okay. I know you don't have a medical PhD, but I also know you've tended to a gunshot wound."

Spencer paused. He knew where this was going.

"You want me to tend to Amber's gunshot wound?" He asked in disbelief.

She finished unlocking his cuffs, and looked him in the eyes. 

"No, Amber's already patched up."

Spencer just lied there. Then what did she want?

"No," she repeated, leaving his line of view. "I just wanted to know if we unchained you and left you in here, if you would be able to keep your shoulder from letting you bleed to death." The door closed.