Show me your hands. Do they have scars from giving? Show me your feet. Are they wounded in service? Show me your heart. Have you left a place for...love?
- Fulton J. Sheen

The first time Emily regains consciousness she finds she cannot breathe. There is a tube snaking its way down her throat. Instinct has her reaching for it. Intuition tells her what she believes to be the truth: he did this, too. The beating Doyle gave her is too fresh in her mind. The branding. The brutal impaling. She hurts deeply and everywhere. Painkillers are barely masking the agony.

"Hey…it's okay…" a soft voice soothes. Garcia.

Another hand catches hers on its way to pulling the offensive tube. She feels something foreign on the ring finger of the right hand and knows automatically. JJ and Will got rings with Henry's birthstone in them three years ago. Citrine. They are not wedding bands.

Irritated, Emily tries to yank her hand free, but only manages a feeble twitch. She mimes for a pen and paper. Her writing is disjointed. Her hand shakes, but she writes three words:

Where is he?

Emily tries to stay awake to find out the answer, but she is pulled back into a drugged sleep before she can hear the answer. Anxiety makes the monitors beep with a greater frequency, and still, she finds, she cannot stay awake.

Days pass and she is weak. She receives blood transfusions and nutrients through intravenous lines. It is hell. The only thing that makes it remotely bearable is the presence of JJ and Garcia. It seems, they have never left. Garcia understands in a way no one else can, the trauma of an abdominal injury. She is here as Emily's confidant. While JJ - who is more like Emily than almost anyone - can tell Emily without sugarcoating, exactly what she must do. JJ is here as Emily's drill sergeant.

By the time she can speak - by the time she can sit up, and start trying to recover - Emily is determined to know the truth about what happened to her. She, of all people, will know if they lie to spare her the emotional upheaval.

"What…happened?" she gasps. "Where…is…he?"

JJ and Garcia exchange concerned glances.

"You don't remember?" JJ asks, her tone measured.

"No…I told…Derek to…let me go…" she manages.

"You told him that after he killed Doyle," JJ fills in. "He's gone. You're safe."

Emily winces with the pain of sitting up. She glares at the plastic contraption with the tube attached to it. She knows it is there as a part of her pulmonary toilet, which was just as disgusting and excruciating as it sounds. It involves such simple tasks as breathing deeply, coughing, suctioning and other repellent activities.

"Just try to relax," Garcia encourages gently, offering a hand to hold. "I know it's hard, but it makes it hurt less if you can take it easy…"

Emily can do nothing of the sort, and when eating and drinking is added to her regimen of recovery sometime later, she nearly loses it. Her insides are a mess. She almost bled out, according to JJ, because of the evisceration of her spleen. Thankfully, that could be removed. Unfortunately, she also had to lose portions of her intestines and other things Emily can't recall right now. She has too many.

Of all the things that she has been through to this point, it's a plate of food that breaks her. She tries averting her eyes, but it does not help. It doesn't matter that it's just clear broth. She knows it will hurt like hell. If she's sick afterward, she'll wish Doyle had killed her. This pain will destroy her, and that is saying something. Emily Prentiss can handle physical discomfort. But everyone has their limits. Even her.

A tear escapes and then another, and there is no use in trying to hide them. Garcia and JJ don't offer tissues or empty words. They sit with her. Garcia holds her hand.

"You don't have to eat it all at once…" JJ offers gently. Diplomatically. Just like that, the bowl disappears as JJ moves the table, to shield it with her body. Now, all she can see is a tiny spoonful.

She can do that. Maybe.

Emily reaches for the spoon, but a jolt of pain leaves her gasping.

They say nothing. They don't rush her. They just wait until it passes. Then, JJ simply offers Emily the spoon.

They all but move in with Emily the day she is released. Emily tries to be reasonable. She tries to tell them it's unnecessary. She tries to tell them she will be fine.

"Coddling me won't speed up my healing time…" she warns, as Garcia scoops up a neglected Sergio and cuddles him on the couch. JJ is busy hauling the bags of things Emily has acquired since her hospitalization inside.

"Maybe not, but injuring yourself again is an unfortunate possibility if you try to do it all yourself. I had Morgan by my side…and all of you…to be sure I didn't do too much too fast…and you," Garcia says, addressing Sergio as much as Emily herself, "are going to have us."

When Emily dreams that night, they are vivid. They are not dreams at all, but memories. Ian holding the gun to her head. Ian threatening the team. She thrashes and screams as Ian burns her skin. She smells it burning. He beats her but she keeps coming back. But then, there is the fatal mistake. She lets her guard down as the lights go out. For a split second, she has the upper hand, and then the piece of wood is plunged into her side.

The rest comes in flashes. Taking Declan to the same warehouse. Pretending to kill him. Taking photos so that Ian will believe what should be the truth: that he is dead. She can still feel the gun in her hand. She can still taste Ian on her lips. Feel his hands on her body. She can feel herself react to him in ways she can't control. It's what needs to happen, but somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Emily is repulsed by it. She tries to pull away.

She tries to scream but finds herself without a voice. People touch her and she recoils.

"It's us, honey. It's Garcia and JJ. Wake up," Garcia's voice urges gently.

Confused and terrified, Emily opens her eyes. She is curled as tightly as she is able, and is suffering for it as anguish rips through her injury sites. What she finds upon waking is as perplexing as it is reassuring. Sergio is sprawled across the foot of the bed, while JJ and Garcia take up the copious amount of empty space in the wake of Emily's traumatic weight loss.

Emily finds she can't catch her breath. It's too dark to be sure of what is real. All she knows for sure is that lately, she has felt more like Lauren than Emily and that is disconcerting on many levels. She feels nauseous and fears the pain of vomiting so she tries to hold back. Her scars taunt her beneath her nightgown.

JJ turns on the bedside lamp and Emily squints in the light but feels grateful. This, hopefully, will be distraction enough from being sick.

"What's up?" she asks lowly. "You need to talk?" she moves over slightly, making room if Emily should want to fill it.

Everything about her feels methodical right down to the way she accepts comfort. It is automatic and she doesn't register anything at first. But after a time, Emily finds herself closing her eyes and drawing in slow, steadying breaths. She finds herself shaking and not knowing why. But Garcia and JJ are there, on either side of her, just as they have been every step of the way. She imagines what they might see looking at her. Their shrunken, frightened friend, who is just a shadow of her strong former self.

"I…don't know who I am anymore…" Emily admits in a tiny voice. "I feel…like this," she says, tilting her face to show off the tiny scar on her cheek. "And this…" she says, revealing the familiar clover burned into the skin of her chest. "I feel like I'm not me, and instead, all these things that have been done to me…" she says, feeling defeated.

JJ simply puts her arms around Emily and holds her. Emily feels her friend's lips brush the crown of her head. It reassures her, and it breaks her heart. Her own mother could not even be bothered to visit her when she was near death. But here is JJ. Not her mother, but a mother, definitely. The love Emily feels is almost too much to take. She isn't demonstrative with her affection and hasn't come from that kind of family.

Just as she is ready to pull away, Garcia surprises her. She grabs her glasses from the nightstand and starts freeing the topmost buttons of her pajamas…Emily is too tired to fathom what her friends are doing, or why. But then Garcia reveals the small wound on her own chest - the surgical scars that mar her own skin.

"Does this define me?" she challenges softly, no judgment in her tone.

"You know it doesn't…" Emily responds, though her heart breaks at the pain Garcia went through.

"If there's one thing JJ and I know for sure…it's that…internal or external…remember that you're wearing your scars. They aren't wearing you." Garcia says certainly.

Emily can feel JJ nodding.

"Thanks… Honestly… I don't know what I'd do without both of you…" Emily says finally pulling away from JJ.

"Well, you're stuck with us," JJ says unapologetically. "So get used to it."

"Yeah…okay…" Emily says, smiling for the first time she can recall. She is not all right, but now, at least, she can be sure of this one thing:

She is not alone. She has never been alone.