Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead. Benjamin Franklin

Rossi had no idea when it had started, but he had the feeling that it had been going on for quite awhile before he noticed. Once he caught wind of it, putting together a pattern didn't take long. That was the problem with having been a profiler for as long as he'd been one. After while, you automatically started putting together patterns. Even when you weren't supposed to do it. Like with your fellow teammates.

Not that he didn't have it fully justified out in his head. Reid had been changed by Prentiss's death. They all had, of course, but Reid was always one to internalize. It wasn't the 'weight of the world' look in his eyes that really surprised Rossi, it was the fact that every now and again, Reid would find some excuse or other and disappear for a little while. And when he came back, his eyes would be different. Not glassy or with oddly reactive pupils that would signal drug usage, but the weight would be gone. Or at least lessened for a little while.

After the third time, he began to wonder if there actually was a drug involved. That bothered him, but he didn't want to talk about it to the rest of the team. Not without more than his vague suspicions. Actually, not so vague. Something was going on, but what?

He knew he probably shouldn't, but Rossi began to come up with his own excuses to leave for a little while. Not every time that Reid did, of course. He didn't want to draw attention to Reid or himself. It took patience and time, but he finally began to trace Reid's steps. The days and times changed, but the pattern never did.

First stop was at Reid's favorite coffee shop. Two coffees. On those days, always two. No more, no less. He felt an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach on the day that he finally managed to follow Reid all the way to his destination. The cemetery. Prentiss's grave.

The team's resident genius would take both cups with him, lay one of them beside her marker and then begin sipping his own, talking all the while. Rossi never got near enough to hear what was being said and he didn't try to. Whatever he was pouring out over her grave was giving him the ability to keep going forward. Reducing the weight before it snapped him. Every time when he had finished, Reid would remove the lid from the second cup and allow the beverage to seep into the ground. Rossi had the feeling that the cup was the way that Prentiss preferred it.

Then? She was back. It was a shock, well, to most of them. But Rossi couldn't stop looking over to Reid. He could practically see the visits to her grave running through the genius' lightning fast mind. The conversations with someone who hadn't even been there in any way, shape or form. He couldn't help but wonder if Reid would ever be able to unburden his soul to anyone living the way that he'd been doing at the cemetary.

Emily saw the look in Reid's eyes and couldn't figure it out. He was avoiding looking at her. Avoiding her eyes. Finally she couldn't take it anymore. She would rather him scream or yell or really anything but the utter silence.

"Reid. Say something."

When Spencer did look up and speak, the only one in the room that understood him was David Rossi.

"I'm really going to miss talking to you."

It is a very mixed blessing to be brought back from the dead. Kurt Vonnegut