This story is told from different character's points of view, starting with my OC, Leah Banks'. It will eventually turn out of to be Reid/OC (the OC being Leah), but at the moment it starts as more of a case-fiction. I haven't fully finished thinking out the plot, so PLEASE review and give me suggestions. Updates might be a little slow, because I have other on-going fictions, but I'll try to be as punctual with update as I can. Also, the title might change if I can think of a better one.

-Casey

Count to Ten

Leah's Point of View

The first thing I became aware of was the water lapping at my legs. The tide tugged at them, trying to pull me into the icy depths of the ocean. The rational part of my mind, the part that was still sane at the point, was telling me I had washed ashore at high tide, and that was why it wasn't succeeding. It was low tide. How long had I been here?

Slowly, my senses came back. The first thing that returned was the pain. It was a searing, white-hot pain in my abdomen. The next thing that I felt was the cold. The water was icy, numbing my lower extremities, and as a soft breeze kissed my exposed skin it left a trail of goose-bumps over my body. The last and final thing I noticed was that I was nearly naked— wearing only a pair of black-lace panties I vaguely remembered but knew weren't mine.

But God, the pain— it was awful. My hand, attached to an arm that felt heavier than lead, slowly moved to my stomach to touch it. It was hot, sticky from the blood. My cold fingers probed the wounds, mentally counting. One, two, three, four, five... five holes cut deep into my midsection. Five stab wounds, each bleeding slower because of the cold, each slowly killing me.

Again, the rational part of my mind began to scream at me. What was I doing?! I needed help. I needed to move before I bled to death. I tried to draw my knees up to stand, but the pain was overwhelming; I couldn't do it. My only choice was to crawl, so I rolled onto my hands and knees with a burst of my last strength. Opening my eyes then, I was surprised at how bright it was; the sand reflected the orange sun of early-morning to me. I thought it had been night. I must have been passed out longer than I thought.

I tried to be cautious of my wounds, keep them out of the sand. I didn't want to get an infection if I lived through all this, now did I? Slowly, methodically, I placed one hand and one knee in front of the other, dragging my exhausted body in the opposite direction of the water. I had to find people, if I was going to survive.

I was aware of my slow pace, brutally so. The pain in my abdomen seemed to increase with every move I made; my breaths were shallow and uneven. The sand clung to my blood-covered hands and knees, and I could feel that the blood-flow to my wounds was increasing as my body heated up, too. I was only killing myself faster, doing this. What were the odds that I'd find somebody at this hour? Whatever this hour is, I thought, since I didn't know the actually time.

My hand hit sandy pavement— the sidewalk by the beach. I collapsed beside it, falling onto my stomach. So all that protecting of my cuts was for nothing; they were filled with sand anyway. I tried to drag myself up again, keep moving— but it was impossible. I couldn't do it.

Tears welled in my tired eyes. I fought to keep them open. All I wanted was to sleep. I was so tired. For the third time, my rational brain told me something. If you fall asleep now, you won't wake up again, it said. It was right. I had to stay awake.

I was so miserable, it was painful. I was dead, with no one to miss me. I had no family, no boyfriend, and few friends. I should have been more social in my short life. I should have been more, done more. It wasn't fair.

A soft thudding made me pause. My ear was pressed to the rough, sandy concrete; footsteps? I lifted my head half an inch from the ground. There, a jogger! He was running in my direction, too! Tall and thin, he had dark hair and was wearing a white tee and gray track pants... it is funny the things you remember. He was listening to music, an iPod in his hand and ear buds in his ears. His head bobbed up and down, and his eyes were half-closed; he hadn't seen me.

My heart fell. My mouth was too dry to call to him. He might run right by me and never know he could have saved my life. "Help," I mouthed, but no sound came out. He kept jogging, eyes off to the left of him. And, of course, I was to his right.

He was so close his feet caused to ground to shudder. It was strange, that I felt that, because the guy looked light enough for a strong wind to blow him over. He was so close, but looked so far away. I reached out with the last strength I had, flinging my hand in his direction. To my amazement, and, presumably his, my hand made contact; I grabbed his ankle with my blood- and sand-covered hand and held on.

Spencer's Point of View

Morgan was right; jogging did help clear a busy head. It was early, around five AM, but I hadn't been able to sleep anyway. We'd just had a terrible case in Atlanta, Georgia... a serial killer who murdered seven fourteen-year-old girls before we stopped him. It was horrible because he'd keep them for weeks; up to four before killing them. Torture was obvious, both sexual and beatings. My stomach squeezed when I saw the pictures; I wanted to run from the room and vomit. I hadn't been very objective on the case, but we just had to find that sick bastard. And we did, thank God. But not fast enough; he'd killed his seventh just before we arrived.

Frank Sinatra's version "Stardust" softly accompanied me as I jogged on the path not far from the beach; close enough that the sand leaked onto the concrete and crunched beneath my sneakers as they touched the ground. I kept my stepping even to the beat, counting in my head, one two three, one two three, with the music.

I sighed, enjoying the cold, crisp morning air. It helped erase the memories of that last case. It wasn't often that Morgan was right when it came to things to do with anything over than women, so I stowed away a mental note to tell him that he was right about this. Jogging felt good.

I was so calmed, so unfocussed that as I fell, I momentarily didn't know how that was possible. Then I felt the cold grip on my ankle. I put my hands out, dropping my iPod, to halt my fall and protect my face. As soon as I was steady I got up on my hands and knees and looked for what I had tripped over, presumably a plant or some garbage, a plastic bag, perhaps. What I saw was much, much worse.

The blood— there was so much of it. I could see a trail of it over the sand, heading toward the ocean. The girl, her green eyes unfocussed, clutching at my ankle like a life-line, and maybe it was, for her. Her hair was dark and wet and tangled. It stuck to her forehead and slung to her thin cheeks. She was naked, at first glance; but no, she was wearing dark underwear or a bikini bottom.

I crawled to her, forgetting about the iPod as the ear buds fell out of my ears. I gathered his up in my arms, pulling her into my lap; she was so cold. Her lips parted, as if she was trying to say something, but she didn't; she let go of my ankle and grasped at my shirt, covering it with sand and blood. One of my hands went to my pocket and grabbed my cellular phone, pulling it out and dialling 9-1-1. The other put pressure on the lacerations to her midriff, as though trying to hold the blood inside.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?" a female voice asked me.

"I'm by the corner of Fourth and Hawthorn, on the beach path. A young woman has been stabbed—" My voice cracked. "There's so much blood..."

"Sir, stay where you are, an ambulance is on the way." I nodded numbly, not taking my eyes off hers. She was so scared, and she looked so tired...

"Is she conscious?"

"Her eyes are open, but she isn't saying anything..."

"Try and get her to talk, tell her help is coming."

"Help is coming," I said, still staring into her emerald-coloured eyes. "Can you talk? Are you breathing efficiently? What is your name?" I put the phone down beside me and cradled her in my arms, still trying to hold the blood inside her and it leaked through my fingers. I never knew a human could have so much blood.

"Leah," she breathed. Her voice was soft and velvety, even through the obvious pain and dryness of her throat. Tears spilled over my cheeks as I held onto her, willing her to stay alive. I was used to people dying, of course; but usually it had already happened by the time I got there. This was so completely new to me, trying to save a life.

I heard the sirens in the distance. It was taking them long enough! "Leah, just stay awake for me, please. Please, Leah, just stay awake," I murmured as I saw her eyelids droop. She looked so tired, but she was fighting it.

The next few minutes passed in a blur of sound and feelings. Leah being pulled from my arms by an EMT and being loaded up into an ambulance. Another asking me what happened. My monotone answers as I watched them take her away, driving off with lights flashing. Standing in the light of an early morning, covered in Leah's blood. I didn't know her, but I had saved her. As long as she didn't die on her way to the hospital, they could help her. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I had saved someone's life!