The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.
--Plutarch
Was it wrong that it felt like coming home?
The needle slid in flawlessly, disappearing into his pale arm like it belonged there. It did; he knew it did. It was beautiful, the way it felt so familiar in his body. It owned him like nothing else could.
And now the drug began to course through his system, setting his veins on fire. It cradled him, rocked him to sleep, sang to him. He was the child and it was the mother. The fire was deliciously painful, licking at him like a cat. His eyes closed, and the only that remained was the drug, holding him in an embrace that strangled and caressed him all at once.
The thing was, he had truly believed he didn't need it anymore. The rehab, the pep talks from the assigned therapist, his team's encouragement – all of it convinced him that he was free of Henkel at last. More than anything, though, Gideon had proved that. Everywhere he turned, Gideon was there, coaching him, guiding him, taking him to rehab. To know that another human being had such complete faith in him was the purest kind of high. He, who had hidden behind his knowledge for years, could finally feel the connection that he had craved for so long.
But then Gideon broke. He had seen it coming in Jason for months. Sarah's death was the final blow, and then he watched Gideon slip away from him, slowly, agonizingly. He tried to help Gideon through it, to return the favor, but to no avail. And then Jason was gone, and he had no one left.
He had cried when he found the letter at the cabin. He had sobbed for the first time in years, straight-out, from the gut. It was like…like losing an arm, or a leg. Another part of himself. He had been made whole, and then cruelly torn apart. Gideon had become the very definition of an unsub – someone who destroyed lives irrevocably, leaving shards of broken hearts in his wake.
He hadn't given in when Gideon left. He had listened when Prentiss and Morgan had told him that Jason would've wanted him to keep fighting. They were right, of course, he told himself. You were like a son to him, they said. Gideon loved you. In the end, though, Gideon had hurt him far worse than any unsub ever could.
He was afraid now as he had never been before, afraid of his mind and the wonderful, terrible things it could do. It shielded him from the numbness he felt, but at night…at night it made him see images that would never be erased. His mother, a limp ball on the corner of her bed, a marionette whose strings had been cut…scores of bodies that piled up until they blotted out the sun… neat rows of mud-encrusted shoes. And always, always he saw himself, living out his days in a hospital. Not knowing Gideon when he saw him. I know what it's like to be afraid of your own mind.
After Adam and Foyet and the pig farm and the anthrax…he needed the release. It was easier than anything he had ever done before, easier than breathing…to slide the needle in and not feel anymore. Make me forget, he thought. I am a vessel, nothing more. I am the boat and it is the sea. Take me away. Nurture me, soothe me, let me know nothing for a few blissful hours. Hold me.
It kept every promise it made, and then broke them when he turned away.
Something was ringing. Make it stop. He could barely stand now, but he heard it faintly…ah, his phone. He couldn't remember why, but it was important that he answer it. It was imperative. He fumbled in his pocket, fingers finally closing on the offending device.
"Reid?"
"Yesss…" he managed to slur.
"Reid, it's Morgan. Hotch has been shot."
A/N: Not sure how I feel about this one. I have difficulty writing Reid, but I wanted to give it a go. Please review.