It had been nine days since she'd seen him. He wasn't taking anyone's calls, either. She'd found out from Emily that he had gotten his mother tucked safely back into Bennington, an atmosphere she was thriving in, once again. Good news.

But what about him? Since then, she'd worn her husband's patience thin by talking about him constantly. She couldn't get him off her mind, and her deep concern for him was permeating every action, every area of her life. At times she felt she might be losing it, the enforced inability to communicate with him pushing her to the edge of panic.

She'd talk herself down, reassuring herself that he needed solitude right now after his ordeal, but that he would reach out to her when and if he needed someone, something, anything. But would he? And if not, how would she know? How would she know if he was okay, or in trouble, or worse yet – heading into that dark place she knew he could go sometimes. The place where he pushed everyone away and fell into the blackest part of his beautiful mind.

So here she was. She'd taken a personal day and here she sat in her truck in front of his apartment. She'd looked up and seen the curtains were drawn, as she'd expected. No light could get in, despite the sun being out in all its glory, today. She hesitated to go up. He might not let her in... but she had to know he was alright. That's why she was here. It's why she'd come.

Her feet felt heavy as she climbed the steps to his door. She had to see him, but she was also afraid of what she might find. And what if he rejected her, ignored her, stayed hidden?

Good thing she had her key.

She knocked. No response. She knocked harder. Silence. She debated calling out to him. Since his imprisonment, she hadn't wanted to pressure him into doing anything against his will. He needed her to remind him he had choices, again. That his decisions were his own... to take back his free will that had been yanked from him so swiftly, suddenly.

She called to him finally because it was necessary. He needed to know who was out here, who it was that stood at his door. She stiffened her resolve and raised her voice. "It's me. Will you let me come in?"

Silence. She knew he was in there, she could sense his presence, feel him on the other side of the door. She waited for what felt like long minutes, her hand against the door, and when there was no response, she pulled out her key.

As she slid it into the lock, she hesitated. What if he... what if he has someone in there with him? What if he is guarding his privacy because, like with Maeve, he doesn't want us to know? She felt a pit opening in her stomach as she thought of it. No, he wouldn't... couldn't do that. We said no more secrets. We swore it to each other.

She unlocked the door with a loud click, and pushed it open into what seemed at first total darkness. As the dim hallway lighting shifted the shadows in the room, she let herself in, kicking the door shut and making her way around the furniture. She put her hand on her weapon, a reflex, as she started down the hallway to his bedroom.

It was then she heard him whisper. Just a single word and she jumped and turned around at the same time.

"Here," he said, softly.

He was seated, his back to her, in one of the club chairs he kept next to his largest bookcase. Squinting, she made out the outline of his head, hair tangled and mussed, haloed against the banked light creeping around the edges of the curtains.

She straightened and put her hands in the pockets of her trenchcoat, then moved around to stand in front of him.

"Hey," she said as her profiler's eyes flicked over him, taking it all in.

He sat shirtless and barefoot, in flannel bottoms, arms draped atop the arms of the chair, a short glass of... was that whiskey? held loosely in one hand. She caught her breath as she noticed that while he had always been slender, she could see the outline of his ribs protruding starkly in the dim light. He obviously hadn't eaten in days. The pit in her stomach widened at that knowledge.

Pushing all of the admonishments that flew to her mind off of her tongue, she swallowed, and said "I needed to see you."

She thought making it about her need was the way in. That he'd brush off any offers of help for himself... but if she needed something, he might respond.

He lifted his unshaven face for the first time and met her gaze, his eyes black and sunken in shadow. "Are you okay?" he said, his voice coarse from disuse, and alcohol.

Her heart cracked at the sound of his voice, but she pushed forward. "No, I don't think so. Someone I love very much is in trouble, and isn't letting me help."

"Psssh," he responded, waving his hand limply in her direction. "I'm taking a little time off to focus, that's all. I'm fine." He looked away and lolled his head on the back of the chair.

She took a step towards him, but reined herself in at the last minute. "Is that right." she said, a statement, not a question.

He lifted his head and looked at her, his vision swimming as his gaze moved up and down the length of her body. He swirled the whiskey in his glass and raised it slowly to his lips taking a sip, his eyes catching hers. "Drink?" he asked.

She bit the side of her lip to keep her sharp retort from escaping and said instead, "I'm actually kind of hungry. Do you mind?" and she gestured towards his fridge.

He nodded and she opened it, unsurprised to see that it was practically empty. She hadn't known many single guys who cooked a lot, and this was pretty typical. A few eggs, a block of untouched cheddar cheese with a green corner, a quarter half gallon of milk, and a few slices of withered pizza were all there for the taking.

She stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, slumped in the chair, sipping his drink, and the crack in her heart widened. This wasn't him. She took the eggs and milk out and whisked them together using a fork, found a frying pan and a spatula and got to work. Soon she had whipped up cheddar scrambled eggs and put a pot of coffee on.

She went to him and reached for his whiskey. "Can I see this for a sec?" she said, as she took it and set it down on the side table. "C'mere a minute," she said as she took hold of his hands and helped him to a standing position. He swayed, and she put her arm around his waist, steadying him.

He was silent during all of this, but watching her. He had a pinched expression, like one of anger that he didn't know what to do with.

She started to lead him to the small dinette, but he reached over to grab his glass. He turned to her and said, "I need this."

She reached up to smooth his furrowed brow, eyes penetrating his, and said, "Not now, you don't. You need this." She gestured toward the food.

The aroma hit him and he found she was right. Suddenly ravenous, he didn't argue. He focused on the blurry plate and sat down hard in the dinette chair. JJ watched him attack the eggs and moved back to the kitchen to get him a cup of coffee. There was no sugar, but she went to pour a little milk into the cup and he murmured around a mouthful of eggs, "Black is fine."

"That's new," she thought, but didn't say anything and passed it over, then lowered herself into the nearest chair and pretended to not watch him eat.

When he finished, she leaned in and grabbed his hand. He sipped his coffee cup with the other, and looked over the rim at her. He looked her up and down again and it was almost like he didn't recognize her. What he asked next was the final crack in her heart.

He leaned toward her, squeezing her hand, and whispered, his words slurred, "Are you... really here?"