This is my first Criminal Minds story. The usual disclaimers apply. Don't know, don't own. This is based off one of my favorite story lines in the series. I've set it to start at the end of "Jones". Hope you enjoy it.

"When you can stop, you don't want to and when you want to stop, you can't" - Luke Davies

Spencer Reid sat quietly, alone, listening to his friend Ethan play the piano in a barely lit lounge. He had been sitting there for almost forty five minutes thinking about the past few weeks. The last injection was wearing off and he was glad he had a glass of whiskey to take the edge off. He normally didn't drink liquor but he felt this occasion called for it. Ethan's words kept running through his head. Did the rest of his colleagues know? He had a feeling they suspected but he didn't think any of them would actually confront him.

His eyes shifted to the seat next to him as he watched a man sit down. It was Jason Gideon. He wasn't surprised. Spencer paused a moment before speaking.

"How did you find me?" he asked, his voice rasping a bit.

"You're not all that hard to profile." Spencer could feel Gideon looking at him. He stared at his hands a moment and he half heard Gideon make a comment on Ethan's music. He knew what was coming next. He had intentionally ignored Emily's calls and missed the flight. He just couldn't go. The nightmares were still plaguing him. He felt drained, exhausted and nervous nearly all the time now. He needed to sleep and the only thing that let him, he had to be alone to do. He inhaled then spoke.

"I missed that plane on purpose." That was the first time he admitted it out loud.

"I know." Gideon's voice had a sad tone to it. It made Spencer feel a pang of guilt for lying to his friend. He couldn't say it yet. He was still in a state of denial that he had a problem. His intellect was looking at the logical aspect of the situation. He knew the statistics and signs of addiction but the emotional part of his brain kept telling him to ignore it. That he could control it. He felt like he had two people raging inside his brain. He thought of the simplest way to satisfy Gideon's expectant body language.

"I'm struggling." Spencer saw Gideon shift in his chair and sigh.

"Well, anyone who has been what you've been through recently...would." Spencer stared at his hands again. He felt like he owed Gideon more of an explanation. His mind raced with thoughts and reasons. Anything he could say to try and verbalize what he was feeling. For a moment, he wished it was something he could recite from a book or a mathematics equation that had a clear process to the solution. He found himself telling Gideon that this job, the FBI, is all he has known. There had been no other viable option for him in his mind.

He paused, falling silent again. Spencer had seen some disturbing and graphic things in his short career and normally the analysis and science of it all made it bearable. It made it worth it, especially when they were able to save someone but being taken, tortured...it was something he was completely unprepared for. It made him doubt everything he had done in his life up to that point. What if he was just as weak as he was told by his torturer? It was foggy but he remembered crying, feeling helpless and foolish for getting himself into that situation.

He looked at Gideon and listened to him talk about what the job was to him. How it affected him. Spencer's mind was still filled with doubt. He couldn't tell Gideon this so he said what he thought Gideon wanted to hear.

"I'll never miss another flight again." They looked at each other for a moment then sat in silence, in their own thoughts, for the remainder of the night.

Spencer sat curled up in a seat on the the jet the Behavioral Analysis Unit used for transport to their cases. They were home bound for Quantico, Virginia. Spencer glanced at the other members of the team. Gideon was writing in his notebook next to Aaron Hotchner who was staring intently at his phone, typing furiously and stopping every so often to smile. Emily Prentiss and Jennifer Jareau were chatting in the seats across from Gideon and Hotch. Spencer's eyes drifted to Derek Morgan. He was listening to what Spencer assumed was music on his head phones. His eyes were closed and his fingers tapped out the beat on his thigh. He thought about Morgan's hints over the last weeks to get him to talk. It usually was easy for Spencer to talk to him. Morgan had a way of listening to his, at times, confusing incomplete thoughts and offering some insight on them. He appreciated it but for some reason, he couldn't even find words, confusing or not, to really describe how he was feeling.

Morgan opened his eyes and Spencer quickly looked away to avoid eye contact. He redirected his focus to the dark clouds outside his window, crossed his legs and wrapped his arms around himself. If he sat like that maybe he could fold in on himself and disappear. He watched the clouds passing by his window. It was almost completely dark outside and the last rays of sun cast an eerie red back glow on some of them.

"What are you thinking about?" The unexpected sound of Morgan's voice made Spencer jump and he felt his stomach drop. Morgan had taken the seat across from him and was leaning forward with his elbows balanced on his knees. He stared at Spencer waiting for an answer.

"Nothing really." Morgan shook his head slightly, one side of his mouth twisting up at the corner. "What?" Spencer tried his best to look confused.

"Seriously, kid? That is the most bogus response. You never just think about nothing. Your mind is always going a hundred miles per hour. What's been up with you lately?" Spencer could feel Morgan's eyes on him. He returned to staring out the window. It was easier to lie if he wasn't looking him.

"Just tired." It was sort of the truth. Spencer hoped his short answers would dissuade Morgan from more conversation. It didn't.

"Look, I know something is up with you. I just want you to know I'm here if you want to talk. You know that, right?" Spencer sat silent. Morgan continued. " Reid, I'm worried about you. We all are. What can we do to help?"

Spencer turned to look at him. He gave a small tight lipped smile.

"Thanks, Morgan. Your worry is misplaced though. I'll be okay. I'm okay." The last part of his sentence sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well as Morgan. Morgan sat back in his seat.

"I hope that's true."

It was well past midnight when Spencer finally arrived home. The jingling of his keys echoed in the empty apartment and the sound of the door closing seemed too loud to him. He stood in the dark foyer for a moment, eyes closed, taking in the silence around him.

He leaned over and flipped on a lamp that was on a desk near his front door. It filled most of his apartment with a soft yellow light. He looked at the weeks worth of mail strewn around the lamp. He really should open it but he just didn't want to.

His messenger bag began to feel heavy across his shoulder and he could feel a dull ache start there and radiate up his neck to the base of his skull. He lifted the strap over his head and let the bag fall to the floor with a heavy thud. It was filled with paperwork he needed to read before tomorrow's briefing. He needed to be back at the office by eight o' clock the next morning. He felt overwhelmed thinking about it. He crouched down and opened the bag and removed a folder. He set it on top of the desk and then returned his hand to the messenger bag. he blindly felt around for the smooth glass of the vial he had hidden in the side pocket. He felt it cool against his hand and wrapped his fingers around it.

Spencer stood up, grabbed the folder and made his way to the couch. He set the vial down on the wooden coffee table and let himself sink into the couch. He turned on a second lamp that was positioned next to him on an end table. He pulled his legs up and sat cross-legged while he laid the folder across his lap. He opened it and started to read. His eyes crossed causing the words to blur together on the page.

He brought his hand to his eyes and rubbed them, trying to get them to focus on the printed words in front of him. The type came into focus again and he resumed reading. He only read one page before he looked at the vial on the coffee table. He shook his head and tried to keep reading. His hand idly went to his cheekbone and scratched then moved to his forearm to scratch there. He suddenly felt itchy everywhere, His arms, legs...the back of his neck.

He flipped the folder shut and tossed it on the floor. He'd read it in the morning. That was one of the benefits of being able to read twenty thousand words a minute.

Spencer leaned forward and grabbed the vial from the table. He held it up above his head and watched the liquid slide from one side of the vial to the other. He pursed his lips together and reached over to open the drawer of the end table next to the couch. He felt around and grabbed one of the syringes he stashed there. He'd been surprised how easy it was to get them. He just walked into the pharmacy near his apartment and asked if they sold diabetic supplies. Six dollars and ten minutes later, they were tucked in a paper bag under his arm.

He took the cap off the syringe and stuck the needle into the mesh opening of the vial. He tipped the vial back and watched the liquid cover the end of it. He pulled the plunger back on the syringe and watched the liquid pass the numbered lines. Spencer's mind converted the measurements on the insulin syringe into milliliters. He pushed the plunger down to release any air in the barrel and then pulled it back to the amount he wanted. He had become fascinated with preparing the syringes. It was almost as exciting to him as the injection itself. it's like his brain knew that in moments everything would be better. It was as if his subconscious knew the whirlwind of thoughts and memories shrieking in his head were about to be silenced.

He pulled the needle from the vial and used his fingers to tap any remaining air to the top. He watched a few small bubbles float there and he quickly let them escape out of the tip of the syringe. He set his syringe and vial on the coffee table and rolled his sleeve up to his mid forearm. He loosened the band on his watch and adjusted it above his wrist. He had taken to injecting there. His watch easily covered up any marks the needles left behind.

Spencer brought his arm to his mouth and used his teeth to pull the band of the watch tight. He opened and closed his hand a few times and in his peripheral vision could see the veins start to rise as they filled with blood. He grabbed the syringe from the table, lowered his arm and positioned the needed above one of the risen veins. He was too tired to care about sterilizing the area first. At first, he'd been meticulous about cleaning the top of the vial, making sure the needle never touched anything before it touched him and cleaning the injection sight after. Now, he was in such a rush to stop feeling, he skipped those steps.

The needle bit into his skin and he inhaled sharply. Once he was sure he had it in, he pulled the plunger back and watched blood mix in with the liquid. He could feel his stomach twist in anticipation, He inhaled and exhaled slowly before pushing the plunger down and watched it all disappear into his vein.

His face felt warm and his eyelids drooped. The warm sensation started in his hands and quickly dispersed through his whole body. Then the numbness set in. At last, Spencer's mind was blank. He wasn't thinking about his mother. He wasn't thinking about Tobias Hankle or the BAU. He felt his grip loosen on the syringe and he heard the soft sound of plastic hitting the wood floor as it fell to the ground.

Spencer leaned back into the cushions of his couch and stared at the ceiling, counting the beating of his heart and listening to the sound of his own breathing. The numb feeling had moved into his head and he felt like he was floating. His last thought before nodding out was that he wished he could feel like this forever.