Soo…I realize it's been like two and a half weeks since I've updated. I'm quite sorry about that. I had to work and go to my college orientation and watch every episode of South Park three times. You know how it goes. Nonetheless, I would absolutely love if all the incredibly awesome people who have read/reviewed in the past would tell me what they think. So…enjoy the chapter! (or don't, I suppose it's your decision.)
"Life does not cease to be funny when people die anymore than it ceases to be serious when people laugh." - George Bernard Shaw
Everything was cold.
Reid squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the pillow over his head. He shivered again, trying to ignore the pounding headache that made it feel like his brain was trying to push itself out through his ears. He pressed his hands to his face and let out a moan of agony.
Off in the distance, he thought he heard a knock on the door.
In a gesture of frustration, he grabbed a pillow off the bed and threw it in the direction of the knock. He pulled the covers closer to his body and shivered again.
There was another knock. He heard a distinctly voice coming from the other end of the door. "Reid! We know you're in there!"
Reid couldn't bring himself to move. The prospect of standing was dizzying, agonizing, nauseating. And besides, it was too cold to be summer. Far too cold. If he got out of bed, he might freeze to death. He was sure of it.
His visitors knocked several more times, then evidently gave up and left. Once he was sure they had gone, Reid reached again for his phone, staring at the contact he had saved hours ago yet had not been able to muster the courage to dial. Reid tried to inhale deeply to calm himself, but the breath was interrupted by another violent shiver. Gritting his teeth, he hit the send button and dropped the phone onto the pillow.
A man answered after the first ring. "Dr. Reid, I'm assuming?" On the surface, the voice was lighthearted—but there was a dark, intense undercurrent to it.
"I feel like shit," Reid muttered, his tone half-accusatory and half-pleading.
"I'm very sorry," the voice replied. "Is there something you'd like me to do?"
Reid pulled the covers closer. "Who are you?" he asked eventually.
"Who am I?" the man echoed. "Well, there's a tricky question. A scientist, I suppose. Is that really the most pressing question at the moment?" There was a chuckle. "Someone did tell me you had a strange obsession with names."
Reid pondered this for a moment, then asked, "You…know Marland?"
There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "Unfortunately," he said. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again…those two are a bit of an experiment gone wrong."
"Experiment?" Reid asked. "What kind of a scientist are you?" Reid paused for a moment, feeling a slowly brewing panic. "What did you give me?"
"Just something to calm your heart down," the man reassured him. "Too many stimulants, Dr. Reid. You've got quite the addictive personality. It's very unhealthy."
Reid gritted his teeth. "It was you, wasn't it?" he snapped. "You're the one…in charge of it all."
The man on the other end laughed. "That was a remarkable leap of intuition, Dr. Reid," he said, his tone friendly, "But no one is ever truly in charge of anything, no matter how much they'd like to think they are. Just look at those obnoxious twins—it's impossible to relegate anything they do to fulfill any degree of usefulness whatsoever—a sad truth which I am learning more and more fully each day."
"Why don't you get rid of them, then?"" Reid mumbled irritably, still barley able to think due to the pounding pain in his head.
"These things are rather complicated," the man said. "Sometimes, one finds himself in situations where—"
"Oh, never mind!" Reid snapped, not in the mood to hear a long-winded explanation. "Look—are you the one that's selling the drugs, or not?"
"Selling?" the man sounded rather offended by the word choice. "At what point, Dr. Reid, did we ever ask you for money in return for our product?"
Reid let out an annoyed sigh. "Well, you made me deliver that poem last time," he muttered, "So that's an exchange of services, in a way—"
"Again with the poetry!" the voice snapped. "I swear to god—I'll strangle her. Alright, Dr. Reid, listen—I'm very sorry about that. I should have never subjected you to interaction with those two. How about I come by later, and deliver the product myself?"
Reid was silent for several moments. "You mean…to my apartment?"
There was laughter from the other end. "That's very funny, Dr. Reid," he said, "You're the first customer I've served who didn't immediately agree to that offer."
Reid snorted. "So you're not selling anything," he said, "But you've got 'customers.'"
"Fair point," the man replied. "Perhaps 'customer' isn't the right word."
"So who else have you given it to?" Reid demanded.
There was some more laughter from the other end of the phone. "We've got a lot to talk about, Dr. Reid," he said. "But I would like you to know—really—you're doing me a great service. I'll see you in an hour."
Reid heard the other end of the line go dead—he fell back down onto the pillow, wrapping his arms around his body for warmth. Despite his distrust of the man, he couldn't help but hope that his arrival would bring some sort of respite from his current condition. He closed his eyes, already exhausted from the short conversation—and he was halfway asleep before he realized that he'd never told the man where he lived.
O
"Of course he's on drugs again."
JJ shot Morgan an irritated look, feeling annoyed and slightly betrayed by his comment. "How could you say that?" she snapped. "If 'strange behavior' was an automatic indication of drug abuse, we'd have committed everyone in the BAU to rehab at least three or four times." There was a pause. "Oh, you know what I meant."
"It's strange for Reid," Morgan said gravely. "You haven't been living with him for the past couple of days, JJ. Look—he disappears in the middle of the night, he's got these really happy spells where he won't shut the hell up and then a few hours later he won't get out of his bed—"
"Drug-induced hypomania," Hotch muttered. "The brain acquires a tolerance to the neurotransmitters that are causing the euphoric sensation, and then once it wears off it's already stopped making them, and there's a shortage of…dopamine?" Hotch frowned. "Or is it serotonin? Melatonin? Melanin? Dopatonin?" He scratched his head. "Damnit. I don't remember. Where's Reid when you need him?"
"Great question," Morgan snapped. "Which leads into my next point, JJ—is it considered normal to disappear for an entire day and a half, refuse to answer your door or your friends calls, and—"
"But it might not be that!" JJ snapped. "What if he's been kidnapped? Have you ever thought of that?"
Morgan rolled his eyes. "He hasn't been kidnapped," he muttered. "Besides, if he was, he would annoy the hell out of the unsubs and they'd get rid of him as soon as possible—he wouldn't last twelve hours, let alone an entire—"
"Derek!"
This rebuke came across the room, from Garcia, who was glaring at Morgan with a combination of indignant shock and utmost fury. Morgan folded his arms and sighed.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "Look, I'm just as worried as you are. But I know Reid, and I know he wasn't acting right—and I can't believe that's he'd be selfish enough to distract from the case with his personal issues—and he hasn't been kidnapped, because he walked around the goddamn apartment building alone at night for god knows how long and nobody bothered him, so—"
"That's not the reason," Garcia interrupted haughtily. "We know he wasn't kidnapped because his building manager saw him walk into the building this morning."
"Exactly," Morgan said. "At five o'clock this morning—who walks into their apartment building at five-o-clock in the morning?"
"Reid, apparently," Hotch muttered. "Alright, look—I understand you're all worried. But we do have a case. Just because we're missing a team member, that doesn't mean we stop doing our jobs. Understand?"
There was a reluctant grumble of assent.
"Great," Hotch muttered. "Garcia—were you able to track the location of whoever hacked into the security cameras?"
"All I know is that they were about a quarter of a mile away from JJ's house when they did it," she muttered. "They used a disposable cell-phone, so I can't track their current location." She shook her head slowly. "And they only used it for twelve minutes. I can't believe they hacked the entire system in twelve minutes." She just stared at it, frowning. "They must have gotten access to the security information somehow—although I don't know why, because hacking into the security database would have been ten times harder than hacking into the cameras, in the first place." She glanced at Morgan, as if searching for some sort of reassurance—but Morgan didn't notice. He appeared to be lost in thought, staring off into the distance.
"Keep working on it," Hotch muttered. "Rossi, Morgan—go back to JJ's house and see what you can find. The unsubs might think they left without a trace, but they've been there at least twice now—there has to be something. The forensics people are already looking, but…" he trailed off. "They might not know where to look. We know that Reid arrived just after the unsub had planted the poem—they might have seen him coming and taken off." Hotch then nodded at JJ. "You and I can go over to Reid's apartment again," he muttered grudgingly. "He might have seen something. Blake, you stay here and work on the geographic profile because…" he trailed off, nodded again, then said, "Alright. Let's go."
JJ and Hotch walked in silence to the car. It was only after several minutes of driving when JJ decided to speak.
"A bit contradictory."
Hotch blinked, as if his thoughts had been interrupted, then turned towards JJ. "What?"
"Well first, you say, 'We can't worry about Reid anymore. We have to focus on the case.' Ten seconds later, it's 'Let's go visit Reid.'" She shrugged. "Seems a bit contradictory."
Hotch gritted his teeth. "Do you think I want to visit him right now? He's skipped work for the past two days. I should fire him."
JJ rolled her eyes. "He's sick," she said. "Since when does missing work for two days obligate a pink-slip? A bit harsh, Hotch. I'd hate to work for you. Oh, wait…"
"It's not just that," Hotch muttered, not cracking a smile. "It's the whole…drug thing. I don't want to deal with it again."
"There is no drug thing!" she snapped, throwing her arms in the air. "Since when have we decided that Reid is on drugs? You've got to stop listening to Morgan, Hotch. He just can't handle living with another person for more than a week. That's why he's not married, you know."
Hotch raised his eyebrows. "What?"
"Alright," JJ muttered, "So maybe I'm being a little defensive. But I know that—whatever is happening to Reid—it isn't his fault."
Hotch glanced at her. "Really? And how do you know this?"
JJ folded her arms. "I just….know."
"Does this have anything to do with what happened in the hospital? With that…guilty feeling that you won't stop talking about?"
"No," JJ snapped, a little too quickly.
Hotch pulled into the parking lot and the car slowed to a halt. "Well," he said, reaching for the door, "I guess we're going to find out."
O
There was a knock on the door.
Reid forced himself to his feet, staggered across the room, and reached for his gun on the opposite table. Letting out another moan, he stumbled towards the door, reached forward, and pulled it open.
Reid stared confusedly at the people in front of him for several moments. "You going to shoot us?" Hotch asked warily, nodding at the gun in Reid's hand. Dazedly, Reid, placed the gun on the table, then turned once again towards his visitors.
"JJ?" he mumbled. "Hotch? What are you doing here?" He scanned the hallway behind them for several moments—but the man he had spoken to on the phone wasn't there.
"We came to see you," JJ said. "We're worried about you, Spence."
"Oh," Reid muttered, unable to stop his eyes from roaming the hallway. "Well—well don't, alright? I'm fine." He gave her a brief smile. "Just—just a cold, or something. I should be back to work soon." He glanced at Hotch. "Sorry—I should have called. I overslept." The words came to him in a daze—it was almost as if Hotch and JJ were from a different world, returning to wake him up from a very strange dream.
"Spence," JJ said, "You're in the same clothes you were in when you visited my house two days ago."
Reid glanced down at what he was wearing. "Am I?" he muttered. "Oh, I—yeah. This is my favorite shirt."
The two of them stared at him grimly.
"Spence?" JJ said eventually, in a small voice.
"What?" Reid snapped.
JJ didn't answer. After several moments of silence, Hotch decided to speak for her.
"You've got blood on you favorite shirt."
Reid looked down at his shirt again—sure enough, there was a fairly large bloodstain that extended from his shoulder all the way down past his stomach. He wasn't entirely sure whether it was his blood, or Marland's blood—but there was no time to think about that now.
"Right," Reid said, trying to act as if the entire situation were completely normal. "I got a nosebleed earlier. I told you I was sick."
Hotch glared at him suspiciously—JJ, on the other hand, looked extremely concerned.
"How sick are you?" she demanded, extending an arm towards him. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"No," Reid snapped immediately, pushing her away. "I'm fine. How is—how is the case going?" He swallowed again nervously, his eyes darting back and forth from JJ to Hotch.
"That's actually why we came here to talk to you," Hotch said. "We wanted to ask if you'd seen anything odd the day you visited JJ's house." Hotch, however, seemed unable to focus on the question, and continued to stare at the bloodstain on Reid's shirt.
"Odd?" Reid asked, trying to ignore his quickening heartbeat. "Well, um—other than the note, no. I was looking at my phone, actually, as I was walking to the door. I didn't notice anything until I went to knock. That's when I saw the poem."
"Right," Hotch muttered. "That's what I figured, but Garcia said…well, the person who left the note must have left less than a minute before you got there."
Reid shrugged once. "Unlucky," he said.
"Yes," Hotch replied.
There was a brief silence.
"I'm probably going to go back to bed," Reid said eventually. "Was there anything else you guys wanted?"
The tension worsened for every moment the question hung in the air.
"You're not on drugs again, right?" JJ blurted out suddenly, as if one impulse. Reid stared at her, shocked.
"What, you mean—you mean Dilaudid?" he stammered, laughing to hide his nervousness. "Is that what you're asking?"
JJ bit her lip. "I'm sorry—I know—but Morgan was—and—well, are you?"
Reid laughed again, his grip on the doorframe tightening significantly. "Of course not," he said. "Why would I want to go through that again?" As he spoke, the pain in his head increased, and he struggled desperately to keep his eyes open and the smile on his face.
JJ laughed, too, looking relieved—Hotch, however, continued to stare at him suspiciously. "You know you could tell us," he said, not joining in their laughter, "If you were."
Reid struggled to hold Hotch's penetrating gaze—but, after one or two seconds, he was unsuccessful, and turned instead towards JJ. "Of course I do," he said. "Where is all this coming from? I think I've got more than enough sick days stored up."
"Yes," Hotch said. "Because you're never sick."
There was another silence.
"Well, I am now," Reid said, beginning to lose patience with the entire façade. "And I really need to go to sleep—alright? I'll keep my phone on. You can…you can call me, if you have any questions about the case."
Finally, Hotch nodded. "Alright," he muttered, sounding resigned. "Feel better."
"Bye, Spence." JJ reached out and pulled Reid into a hug. She pulled back rather quickly, looking alarmed. "Jeez, Spence! You're cold." She surveyed him anxiously. "And so pale—are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital?"
"Positive," Reid said firmly. "I'll see you later, JJ. Hotch." Giving them one last smile—which ultimately felt more like a grimace—he slammed the door shut before either of them could protest further. Pressing his hands to his face, he took several steps forward and collapsed onto the sofa.
A few minutes later, there was another knock.
Reid clenched fistfuls of his hair in agitation. "Go away, JJ," he growled. "I'm trying to sleep."
A familiar voice came from the other side of the door. "It isn't JJ," it said politely. Frantically, Reid pushed himself to his feet and took several steps towards the door.
When he pushed it open, he was confronted with a gun to his head.
"Agh!" Reid shouted, stumbling backwards and tripping over the welcome mat.
"What's the big idea, Dr. Reid?" the man asked. His face was almost completely obscured by a dark hood. "Is there a particular reason why you invited your friends here?"
"What?" Reid stammered, crawling backwards. "I don't—I didn't invite them!"
"Is this a trap?" he demanded. "Listen closely, Dr. Reid—if there are any monitoring devices installed in this apartment, you would be well advised to show me their location or I will not hesitate to have both you and your friends and family dead within the hour."
"I didn't invite them!" Reid protested, his voice growing shrill with terror. "They just—they just came, and—and I didn't invite you either, you know—and you're being very rude right now, actually—and—and please don't shoot me, alright?"
The man surveyed him suspiciously for several moments. "Do you want the drug, then?" he asked eventually.
"Do I—" Reid sat up straighter. "Well, yes, I do, but I don't want you to shoot me either—"
"I'm not going to shoot you," the man grumbled, returning the gun its holster and pulling off the hood. "You frightened me, Dr. Reid—your friends would have seen me if I hadn't recognized their car pulling in—which would have jeopardized the entire operation—"
"Yes, that would've been terrible," Reid muttered distractedly. "Can I have the drug now?"
The man laughed, then sat down cross-legged in front of Reid. "You may," he said. "If you're patient."
Reid bit his lip—he didn't want to be patient, but he also didn't want the man to leave, and he also didn't want to get shot. Ultimately deciding to air on the side of caution, he kept his mouth shut and focused on the man.
"You know, it's funny," the man murmured. "I would have actually preferred a drug that wasn't addictive—chemically, I mean. But it wouldn't have worked any other way." He grinned at Reid. "You would've never opened that door, I mean."
Reid stared at him. "Are you insulting me?" he asked.
The man laughed again. "No," he said. "All the others acted the exact same way you did, actually—it becomes a biological imperative. Like any other addiction—as you very well know. And yet, there's also a very powerful—perhaps more powerful—psychological component that comes with it."
"That's nice," Reid muttered distractedly. "But could we perhaps have this conversation after—"
"Quiet!" the man shouted, waving his gun at Reid again and laughing as the younger man covered his head with his hands and dove underneath the table. "You see—I know you want the drug. It makes you euphoric—I understand. Euphoria is nice. But it's just a side effect." He smiled at Reid. "You want the drug because it makes you happy." He leaned in closer. "But you need the drug because it makes you smart."
Reid crawled out from under the table, hesitantly. "I'm already smart," he muttered.
The man grinned. "Oh, I know," he said. "There have been plenty of smart people. For example—the girl in your third grade class that got a perfect score on all the spelling tests. She was smart. The research librarian at your local library is smart. Your friends—your family—your teammates—they're all smart." He paused, then gave Reid a knowing smile. "But they've all got other things," he said. "If they stopped being smart—well, it'd be tough, but they'd make it through. But you—well, if you weren't smart, what would be left?"
"What's your point?" Reid asked weakly, his head continuing to throb painfully.
"I told you I was a scientist," the man said. "But really, I'm a humanitarian. I'm trying to help you, Dr. Reid. And you're wasting your intelligence."
Reid narrowed his eyes. "I'm saving lives," he muttered dully. "Helping people."
"Did you know," the man said, "That when Albert Einstein was eighteen years old, he renounced his German citizenship to avoid military service?"
Reid stared at him. "So?"
"So," the man continued, "At the time, military service was considered a very noble career path—just as today, your job is considered a respectable way to serve your community. And serving your country is a noble path for most people—but not for Einstein."
Reid stared at him. "I'm sorry," he said, "But I really don't see what any of this has to do with my drug addiction."
The man laughed. "This drug allows you to maximize your intelligence," he said. "Think of the things that Newton—Einstein—Tesla—would have invented, if they'd had access to this."
"That's right," Reid said. "That's why I want it."
"But you're not seeing the larger picture," the man continued. "I'm not going to give you the drug and allow you to continue with your everyday life of catching common criminals. It'd be a waste."
Reid sighed. "I see," he sarcastically. "So you go around looking for brilliant people who you think are wasting their lives, then use abduction and narcoterrorism to convince them to change career paths?"
"I don't want you to change career paths," the man said. "I want you to come work for me."
Reid laughed. "Right," he said. "Because you're the biggest humanitarian of them all. Newton and Einstein would've been much better off working for a criminal."
"I break the law because I have to," he said coldly. "The government would have regulated my experiments."
"Because you experiment on people!" Reid shouted. "And it's your fault I feel this way right now!"
The man leaned in closer. "It might be my fault," he said. "But I'm the only one who can fix it now—aren't I?"
For once, Reid was silent.
"I'm not a criminal," the man continued. "I'm a scientist. I created the drug—I've tested it—and I want to make it better. I want to make the people using it better." He bent down, pulled out a small bottle filled with a translucent, golden colored liquid, then held it in front of Reid's face. "I want to perfect intelligence," he said. "And if that's not a worthy goal—what is?"
