Author's Note: SPOILER ALERT. Also, this isn't fully cannon. I know I made storyline mistakes, this is just simply my musings of a depressed Reid.
He stared at the bookcase in front of him, full of grand adventures and romance. He guessed if you asked an ordinary person, they'd say he lives an extraordinary life. It didn't feel like it.
He hadn't found the cure for schizophrenia; in fact, the disease was creeping up on him and he couldn't stop it. His girlfriend was dead. He couldn't shoot a gun. For fuck's sake, he has been kidnapped and hurt more than anyone on his team. He was the weak link. Sure, he was intelligent. He was useful for things the rest of his team couldn't do. He was the "do-what-ever-we-can't" guy, and he could have been so much more in life than that.
He was still young. If he really wanted, he could quit. But his team was his family. His own mom was stuck in a hospital; he couldn't even bother to write her as much anymore. It was his own damn fault she was in there. Logically, he knew she received more help there than he could give her.
There was a knock on his door and he knew it was another member of his team checking up on him for the umpteenth time today.
"Reid, please open the door. I need to know you're okay," JJ's concerned voice could barely be heard through his think door. He didn't reply. He knew she'd go away eventually, leaving another fucking nut basket he wasn't going to eat. "You're not answering your phone. You're not talking to anyone. We haven't heard from you for days. We're worried about you."
After a minute or so he heard her sigh. "Fine. But we're here for you. We're your family." He heard her footsteps descending down the staircase the lead to his apartment and he focused on his books again.
He liked to read. He remembered every page, every sentence, every word. Sometimes it was a curse – he remembered every horrifying detail of every case while most of his team forgot. Sometimes he laid awake and they haunted him, the details. The little boy's death his team could have prevented, his dad's abandonment. Everyone praised his eidetic memory, but there were nights he wished he could forget.
There was a blank notepad next to him. He could just pick up a pen and write his resignation. It would be over with. Instead, he walked over to one of the books and picked it up. The Narrative of John Smith. He opened the inside cover: "Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone; we find it with another."
He wiped away a tear and removed the book from the shelf. Behind it was a small box. He took the box and opened it; the air suffocated him. His apartment was deafening – his pulse throbbed in his ears. Inside lay a bottle of Dilaudid, a reminder of his fuckup at the barn. He put his team in danger and almost got himself killed.
He went to meetings for his addiction. His team knew about it but didn't talk about it. He had recovered for a while but just like everything else he did, he couldn't help but fuck it up. He took the needle and expertly injected it into his arm. A small voice whispered in his head: Just a little more and it'll all be over. It was tempting, oh hell, was it tempting. But he gave himself just enough to numb the pain and help him sleep again. He hadn't slept in over a week.
He laid in bed, high, crying, suffocating. He picked up the phone and dialed Maeve's phone, just to hear her voice one more time.