A/N: Soo just a general note that this may take a couple of chapters to get going - the third chapter I think is where our favourite Doctor Reid really gets a part in the story. Chapter 2 will be short, I promise, and hopefully you all don't mind reading a lot about Mallory? (I got scared of messing up the actual characters and focused more on my original characters and then realised maybe that would be boring and hopefully it isn't?)

Have fun!

Disclaimer: I own nothiiiiing except maybe the Reynolds :(

One

The Things That Came In Threes

Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear;

The wheels revolve, the universe keeps running.

(Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.)

-Sylvia Plath

The first time they met, she was at the bottom of a stairwell in an unfamiliar building. He was coming in; she was feverently wishing she could go out. She'd planted herself in the middle of the staircase, on the second step up, her feet placed neatly beside each other two steps down. A book was balanced on her knees – The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath. Just a little down the hall, the door to her aunt's apartment stood ajar, and she could hear three voices wafting out of it on the soft afternoon breeze – her mother's, her father's and her aunt's, who had just moved here.

When he came in, the door swung shut with a quiet clunk, grabbing at her butterfly mind. She watched him approach her, guarded, but didn't really think to move out of the way until he stepped around her. Too late, she slid to the side and mumbled what she hoped was an apology but really could be anything, then forced her thoughts back down to the words on the page in front of her, completely missing any reply he might have given her as he continued on his way.

A moment later, her mother, Lisa, appeared at the doorway, worried eyes turning to relieved ones as she observed her daughter quietly reading just as she had said she would be, rather than in conversation with a stranger as the woman had feared (yet quietly hoped) she would be.

The second time they met was at that same building, now a little more familiar. She was on the front doorstep this time, on the second step, her feet neatly lain out in front of her. The Bell Jar balanced precariously on her knees, one of them jigging fast in a movement that could be mistaken for a nervous tick but was not so common to her to be called that. She was sure that if it kept going, her heel would break right through the pavement below, but she couldn't bring herself to stop. Briefly, she imagined the street flooding, then discarded the thought, trying to pull herself back to the words on the page.

He was coming in again. She gave him a precursory glance, the same one she gave everyone that passed her by on the quiet street, only vaguely recognising him as the same man she'd encountered on the stairs inside on her last visit. She remembered his purple scarf and scruffy shoes. Quickly, she checked the sky for rainbows, but of course it hadn't rained in weeks – by the time she realised there was nothing but blue to be found above her, she'd missed his polite greeting and covert observations of the book she was reading and he'd passed right on by.

She swung around in time to watch his scruffy shoes and messenger bag disappear up the stairs, then turned back to staring blankly at the pages of her book, letting the wind turn them as it pleased. In the foyer, behind the doors, her father's eyes followed the man as he passed them by, then snapped to her, but all he saw was a young woman reading. As she should be.

The third time they met was the only time that would matter. She was not on the stairs, or indeed anywhere near the strange-but-familiar apartment building. It was a Friday night, closing in on a Saturday morning. She was in a tree, courage boosted by the glow of nearby street lights and the light from the hallway, which was always there to soothe her. The hallway light spilled into her bedroom, only just reaching the open window that she'd climbed out of in order to reach the branches of the large sycamore tree in the backyard. From there, she'd gone up, reaching for the comfort of the stars, those bright little lights in the sky that even the most terrifying darkness could not put out. Of course, they could be smothered by clouds, but they always stayed shining, and they were always there when she needed them.

The thing was, she was terrified of darkness, whether the darkness of night or a room without lights, or the darkness of stormclouds hanging on the horizon. Without light, she found she could not function – without light, she was terrified, and descended into a state of gibbering and bizarre behaviours. The hallway light kept terror at bay. So did stars. She loved stars.

That was where she was when she first heard the signs that something was wrong. In the tree, with branches to hold her and stars to comfort her. Like parents, only her real parents were sleeping soundly inside the house. There was a scream, breaking glass. Shots, like bullets from a gun, one, two, three. Things always came in threes, she thought. Her mind filled with triangles, with pyramids. She traced an upside-down 'V' in the stars. Silence. The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was-

The Bell Jar. What was a bell jar? Did it ring?

-my own silence.

She smiled, just at her own small victory. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence. And never had a quote fit to a moment quite like this.

Wait. Her own silence.

One, two, three. Three. Three shots had split the night. Three shots, three people. But not one for her. Like friends.

There was a light on in the neighbour's house, visible just in the corner of her eye. Her eyes were fixed on the dark windows of her house, on the dark window of her room. The hall light was gone. Ice crept through her veins. Her hands shook. She wrapped them around calm branches, just to give them something to do. Her heart sped up. Too fast, too loud. What if someone heard it? She hardly dared to breathe. They could hear that too.

She could feel panic rising in her stomach, squeezing at her chest, shortening her breath further. Doctor Tannler came to mind, Doctor Tannler and her father. A deep breath found its way into her lungs, and then another, their voices echoing in her ears. For a second, she thought they were in the tree with her. She tore her eyes away from the house, closed them. A Mad Girl. What were the words? What was the music? I shut my eyes and the world drops dead.

The wind rushed past, bending and pulling the branches around her. She could feel the smooth bark of the tree pressing into the palms of her hands. A siren ripped through the silence, getting closer and closer. A deep frown creased her brow. The world wasn't dead. Her eyes were closed, but the world was so alive around her. Had she not done it right? Had she forgotten the proper words?

There was shouting in her house, then shouting below the tree. Slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes, looking down into the bright lights of several torches. They hurt her eyes, accustomed to the darkness as she was, and bounced off the branches of the tree, setting it on fire. Each leaf was a little flame, each branch filled with smoke and embers. Voices called from behind the lights, trying to coerce her into coming down. I lift my lids, and all is born again. There wasn't an easy way down in the dark, she knew. She didn't try.

A light flicked on to the right. It was her bedroom light. I think I made you up inside my head. She didn't quite remember him, though there was something familiar about the silhouette at the window that made her head towards it. Under her breath, she muttered the first three lines of the poem, over and over.

When he heard it, he frowned, not quite understanding. She hadn't realised that the lines had fractured and splintered, that she was missing bits and jumbling them up. That the poem made no sense to anyone but her by now.

His face became clear as she climbed through the window, and then with a jolt, she remembered him. Their third meeting wasn't on the stairs. It was in her bedroom, with the notion that something was very, very wrong hanging in the air between them.

He led her toward the stairs, and she let herself be led, choking down words before they could rise up and out of her throat like vomit, all mixed and without real meaning. Deep breaths, she reminded herself. One does not love breathing. Who knew where that came from. Maybe one day, she'd stumble across the book that had told her about breathing again, and then she'd know.

To get to the stairs, they first had to pass her parent's room, where the greatest group of people had gathered. They all stood around, one with a camera. What was he doing? She craned her neck, looking around the skinny man that was trying desperately to pull her away, wanting to see what it was all those people were doing in her house, in that room. And then she saw it, the two people she knew and loved most in the world. Her mother lay on the bed, looking just like she was sleeping, except that her eyes were open. There was another body on the floor – her father, she knew, though she couldn't see his face. There was glass on the floor. Blood stained the sheets and the carpet. There was even some on the wall.

She stopped dead, shock running through her like an electric current. A choked sob escaped her, and she lunged towards the bodies, not caring about the glass, or the multitudes of people between her and them. Three! One, two, three. Three shots. One for her mother, two for her father, who had never been one to give up that easily.

An arm caught her before she could cut her feet on the glass, or disturb the people who just stood there and calmly observed the disaster that had invaded her house. It wrapped around her waist and pulled her away towards the stairs, where she couldn't see them anymore. The corner of a vest like the ones all the strangers wore poked into her back; somehow, she stumbled and tripped her way down the stairs without falling, the purple man from her aunt's place pulling her down, down, down, away from the horrors. And waiting at the bottom was another stranger, a woman with blonde hair and kind eyes, who led her to the living room and sat her down on the couch, one hand on her back to comfort her.

It was comforting.

Her knee started to jiggle, up and down, without her permission. Maybe it was a nervous tick after all? Her eyes strayed to the couch. It was purple. Red and blue made purple. The image of her parents flashed through her mind again. A tear dripped down her face, and then another. Soon, she was drowning in them.

She'd imagined a flood when she met him last. She didn't have to imagine anything now.

There was a book on the table. The Collected Poems. She leant forward and snatched it up, opening it to a random page and devouring the words like gulping in great breaths of air to calm herself. I hurl my heart to halt his pace.

The blonde woman was saying something, but the words were bouncing away before she could hear them, like there was a wall between them. She closed the book and collected herself, blinking a few times to clear her eyes of tears. "What?" she asked, when she felt coherent enough to comprehend what was being said.

"What's your name?" was the question, repeated with a kind smile.

She racked her brains. Her name, her name. "Mallory," she said suddenly, remembering. "Mallory Reynolds."

"My name is Jennifer Jareau, or JJ if you want." The woman's eyes drifted to the poetry book in her hands. "You like reading?"

The words sounded like they were for a child, but at that moment she didn't mind, clutching her book tighter and nodding. "My parents," she said, and then stopped. "Are they-" She stopped again. The words just wouldn't come.

JJ nodded. "I'm sorry Mallory," she said quietly. "Your parents are dead."

She blinked, but didn't do much more, just stared at the book in her hands. "How old are you?" the woman asked her.

"Twenty-" She screwed her face up in a grimace, pulling her thoughts together. "Twenty six," she tried again, managing to spit the whole thing out this time.

"And did you notice anyone before tonight who might have been looking to harm your family or get revenge on your parents? You don't have to answer right now if you don't want to," she added hurriedly.

Mallory's mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, left hanging without any words trying to fight their way out. She tried to think back over the past few days. A memory jumped out at her immediately, then disappear. She grit her teeth in frustration. "There was…" The sentence trailed off as she caught hold of it again. She'd been waiting for Doctor Tannler – there'd been a weird man in the corner, watching her. She'd ignored him, because people watched her with weird looks whenever they met her, and he was in a therapist's office, so more likely than not he was just as troubled as her. They couldn't all be normal.

"In Doctor Tannler's office, there was a man…" She shrugged. JJ didn't press.

The man, the one she'd met three times (three shots, she remembered suddenly, her mind going off on a whole new path), appeared at the doorway, beckoning urgently to the blonde beside her. JJ said something about being right back, and then left her. Mallory could still feel the warmth of her hand on her back, like JJ had never left. And then they came back, and the blonde resumed her position, and her hand really was there after all and she wasn't just imagining it (unless she was imaging JJ's entire existence). The man, his purple scarf around his neck, sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of them, looking at them with curious eyes. For the first time, she saw him properly. He was all bright eyes and soft edges, from the unruly curl in his hair to his long fingers, pressed together and resting on his knees as he leaned forward.

"Mallory," JJ began softly, drawing her attention. She looked between the two, not sure what was going to happen. Her stomach twisted with nerves, though she tried to convince herself that she didn't need to be nervous. These people had come in the middle of the night for her. "Do you have any…medical conditions that we should know about?" She caught the blonde woman's glance worried at the man, and his nod of reassurance. Their eyes turned back to her.

She nodded, taking a deep breath. "I have, uh…" Mentally, she cursed herself as she stumbled over the words, but she just couldn't help it. Another deep breath, to calm herself. "Dis-disorganised schizophrenia." Her knee started up again, the drumming of her heel muted by the grey carpet. She caught a hint of pain in the man's eyes, and then it disappeared. Maybe she'd imagined it.

"Hi" the man said. "I'm Doctor Spencer Reid, I work with JJ. You're Mallory, right?" His voice was soft like his face, and with a curious pitch. She liked it – she wished he'd talk more, so that she could just listen and not have to talk herself. She nodded in response, waiting for him to continue. "Are you related to Kathryn Reynolds?"

"She's my aunt," Mallory informed him. "I've met you before."

"Mrs Reynolds lives in the apartment below mine," he said, at a questioning look from JJ. "You remember me?" he directed at Mallory.

"Yeah," she said, shifting uncomfortably. "You were going upstairs and I forgot to move. There wasn't an actual rainbow, I just got confused, and it hadn't rained either. Have you ever read the letters Zelda Fitzgerald's husband wrote to her doctor? They thought she had schizophrenia too, but she actually had a different psychosis-"

"Hey, hey, Mallory." JJ cut across her and she paused, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Had it been something she'd said?

"One of the most common symptoms in disorganised schizophrenics is disorganised speech," Doctor Reid said, his words almost falling over each other in their eagerness to get out. "Abnormal or illogical thought processes make it hard for them to organise their thoughts and it shows up in their speech. Someone with disorganised speech can move from one topic to another midsentence without realising, give irrelevant answers to questions, or even be unable to speak properly at all."

"Word salad," Mallory finished with a nod, a bit miffed by the facts he'd just rattled off but not enough to be offended by it. At least he knew what he was talking about. "I don't usually do that unless I'm off my meds. I just get off-topic sometimes when I try to say a lot of things."

There was a beeping from JJ's pocket; removing her hand from Mallory's back, she pulled out a slim phone, stared at it a moment, then shoved it back into its fabric grave. "Is it okay if we take you back to the station with us?" she asked.

Mallory shrugged. "I guess. I have to get some things first though."

"Whatever you need," the blonde agreed.

"Some of them are upstairs."

JJ paused a moment. "I'll go get them for you," she supplied.

She held up the Sylvia Plath book that was still in her hands. "I need her other two books. And the notebook with them, the-" It took her a moment to realise she'd stopped speaking, and then to remember the words she was chasing. "The green one."

The blonde disappeared, and after a moment Mallory stood and waded her way through the multitudes of people in her house to the kitchen, the doctor trailing after her. For a few moments, she wandered around the room, picking things up and putting them back down when she realised that they weren't what she was looking for until finally he caught her eye and stopped her in her tracks, snapping her out of the sudden, useless activity.

"What are you looking for?" he asked her. She looked around, and then shrugged.

"Something," she replied, eyes wandering about the room once again.

His sizeable intellect set to work, figuring out the puzzle she had left him. Within thirty seconds, he had the answer. This was, after all, where he had found it. Reaching over to the bench right beside her, he held up her medication, right in front of her where she couldn't possibly miss it. "This?" he asked.

She snatched it off him, shoving the packet in her pocket. "I think so." Then JJ returned with her books, the very sight of which calmed her. As she left the house, she stole a glance at the clock. It was just after midnight; her parents had died at the closing of an old day, and now she was starting a new one in a world without them and in the company of more strangers than people she'd met in an entire year.

Anything could happen. But anything was what she dreaded.