Series 11 One-shots: Devil's Backbone

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.

Yet again I begin with an apology for my lack of updates but I am not in a happy place at the moment. Writing is my escape the problem is I am struggling to escape. Is it wrong to wish 2016 was already over and I can have a fresh start?

So enough of my problems – I thought I would wallow in Reid's problems for this episode. Sorry but if you have seen my profile you will understand why this had to be done.

. . .

Prompt:

Antonia Slade: I haven't seen it in a long while but it looks very much like grief.

. . .

Spencer dropped his bags down heavily, barely a step into his apartment. His mood had failed to lift. Nothing about this case felt like a success. Yet he knew that wasn't the thing that was really grinding away at him. It was a niggling thought that had burrowed deep inside of him and was now fighting for attention. He had desperately tried to ignore it at the time . . . and was still doing his best to pretend that those few words had not cut him to the core.

"I haven't seen it in a long while but it looks very much like grief."

Word for word.

He had gone into study her and had come out having been on the receiving end of her amateur psychoanalysis. If it wasn't annoying enough that her taunts and jabs had been on par with basic playground antics, her summary of his emotional state had been more than a little accurate for his liking.

Slumping down onto the high stool by his kitchen counter, a bundle of entangled limbs supporting his head from hitting the counter. Spencer distracted himself counting the drips as his coffee brewed. He wasn't even sure if he wanted coffee, but without thinking he had made his way to the kitchen and started the process out of habit. Staring at the methodical drops of dark liquid he found some comfort in their steady rhythm. His mind opening willingly to the mundane distraction, racing while he tried to hypothesise how many drips it would take to fill the pot. At last something that was worthy of his conscious thought process.

Unfortunately it was short lived, as the regular drip became a sporadic drop, signally his pot of freshly made coffee was ready. Slowly rising from his huddle as he reached up for a coffee mug and poured freely, pouring in the cream and ladling it with sugar. Maybe it was what he needed after all.

Mug in hand he shuffled through to the lounge and plonked himself down, planning to hide away in a Doctor Who marathon. Though the latent heat scored his hands as he wrapped his long figures around the red mug. Anything but face the reality of those words. Opting for one of the forth Doctor's series, Tom Baker always being a favourite of his, he tried to settled down. But his mind wasn't finding solace in the familiar. It was still trying to process the truth in the words Slade had thrown at him.

Eventually he gave in and switched off. Was she right? Was he really grieving for Morgan? He wasn't dead so how could he grieve? He knew where he was. He could head out a visit him right now . . . if he wanted to . . . not that he did . . . but he could.

Spencer knew there was only one way left for him to overcome this – to work through the evidence. Getting up, he went to grab a pen and paper, retuning to his comfy couch and coffee he slumped down once more. Scribbling on the sheet he layout an area of the page for each of the five stages if grief.

If the thought it through he could match the evidence for each to the stages and prove that it was all wrong. That she couldn't possibly be right about him and what he was feeling.

The stages of grief were basic: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. With a large swig of the hot liquid Spencer started to write.

Denial – he had hid away when Derek had come to collect his stuff. Juvenile thinking allowing him to convince himself that Derek would never leave without saying goodbye, and if he never found him he couldn't leave. It was on par with a toddler covering their eyes when they hid – if they couldn't see you then you couldn't see them. But it had been short lived. Derek had found him, it hadn't exactly been difficult. He hadn't wanted to hear it. He hadn't wanted to listen to the undoubtedly brilliant reasons because the result was the same however you wrapped it up. Derek would be gone.

Anger – how could he be angry? Derek was leaving to be a father to his child. He planned to be there no matter what. Spencer was proud of him, doing what many fathers can't or wouldn't. Young Hank Spencer was the singular most important and completely compelling reason to walk away and for that single reason Spencer couldn't be angry. Not now . . . or ever.

Bargaining – What was there to negotiate? It couldn't be him. There was no deal to make Derek come back.

Leaning back Spencer began to smile. She was wrong he knew she was. Swallow some more of his coffee he felt compelled to complete his analysis. Picking the pen up once more he considered the next stage.

Depression – it was a strong word. He definitely missed having Derek there. He missed the jibes and the teasing. He missed the comradery of a true friend. He missed the immaturity of their on going prank war. He missed the look that let him know he was misinterpreting the situation without bringing any additional attention to him. There was so much they had shared that it would be impossible not to feel there was a huge Derek Morgan shape hole in his life. But was he truly depressed? No, just learning to accept the change.

Acceptance – he had accepted Derek leaving. He didn't like change, who did? However at least he understood why this had happened. I was perfectly clear and made sense. Yes he had completely accepted why Derek had picked the future he had.

Settling back once more, coffee in hand, Spencer smiled for the first time in days. It n't grief Slade had seen. It was nothing as simple as that. It was the complex combination of feelings you get when your brother leaves home. He isn't gone forever. He is only a phone call away. You miss him but then feel guilty when you realise you have got through a day without thinking "How would he deal with this?". You will see him again, just not every day.

Finishing his coffee, Spencer stood, screwing up the paper he had scribbled his notes on, he made his way out to the kitchen and then onto the bathroom. Readying himself for bed. Pottering through to his bedroom he was soon settled into bed. He picked up a book and began to read – maybe coffee hadn't been such a good idea after all!

. . .

I have a wonderful shelter, which is my family. I have a wonderful relationship with my brother and sister; this makes me feel that I know always where I belong.

Jose Carreras, Musician