Author's Note: Well, guys, you have my sincere apologies for the wait. I honestly thought that I could have this up by Monday-ish, but going over some of the reviews, I decided that I needed to rethink the way that some of my characters were going, and wound up veering somewhat far offa the beaten path. And I'm happy for it; this chapter is better, now. This just . . . wow. I'm not one who's adoring my own work, but I was really proud of this upcoming bit. I totally lost myself, and I came out of it like, "What did I do?"

. . . Well, I mean, I guess that you're going to get to see all of that here very soon. This is it, the nail-biter, the climax, that one part of a story that every wordsmith simultaneously delights in and fears of . . . *Blows out a breath* I'm nervous, you guys. Really.

No matter what you think at the end of this 7,000 odd words, I promise that I'm still not done. Who's gonna . . . ? And how about . . . ? I mean, what about the . . . ?

AUUGH. You'll understand once you've finished. All I mean is, there's still a bit more to come. But you'll either condemn me for it or not once you've read this next bit. Guess I'd better shaddup and let you get to it . . .

Okay. Okay, here we go.

Warnings: This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of Heroes. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of Criminal Minds.

Disclaimer: Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Five: Revelations

For just a heartbeat, there was silence.

And then Sylar stepped forward, the look on his face one of madness; a horrifying, terrifying grin that oozed smirking, confident delight.

"So nice of you to join us at last, Petrelli." His hands that had been holding Spencer up dropped, but before the younger man could crumple to the ground, Sylar raised a finger to keep him pinned to the wall – and the young genius remained there, dangling, eyes wide as saucers as he watched Peter, still not saying a word.

Sylar was still speaking. "Don't get me wrong, I've been having some fascinating conversations with Dr. Reid over there." His extended hand squeezed just a bit, and Reid gasped, hands scrabbling in a useless effort to save himself as the clutch on his throat tightened, choking him again.

"But you're the one I've wanted to see the most."

"And here I am," Peter spoke compactly, his wavering voice just barely concealing his anger. If only so as not to break down right then, right there, he forced himself not to look at Spencer.

It would destroy him.

Peter gulped as he continued, hanging on to his powers by a mere thread of compacted emotion. "So you don't need Spencer anymore."

Sylar's eyes sparkled. "Oh, I didn't need him in the first place, Peter. I just thought he might make you come a little bit faster, behave a little bit more. The doctor here merely made things more convenient." He glanced at his captive, a hint of disdain written across his face. "And more interesting, I suppose."

"So why are you still involving him?" Peter spoke cautiously, his voice steady and placating, all the while searching for an opening, a way to get at Sylar and take him down before this got out of hand. He shifted slightly, and his opponent's eyes snapped onto him, the smirk playing on the edge of his mouth a clear indicatory that he knew just exactly what was going on in Peter's head.

Sylar blinked. "I'm not," he said in that horrible, velvety voice. "I suppose I don't have to, anymore." And then he turned to face Reid instead, raising both of his hands and clenching them tightly.

If Reid had been able to scream, he would have.

Pain, pain, everywhere – and nothing to stop the flow of –

– pain, pain so much –

– PAIN –

It visibly, physically hurt Peter to hear his best friend's thoughts, screaming and agonized as they were. He forced himself to watch Spencer's face crumble, taking in every second unflinchingly as the man reached up a hand, frantically trying to pry off whatever force was choking him.

Lush lips opened, and for a second, the youngest Petrelli son swore he could hear Reid trying to call his name.

But nothing, nothing save for a gurgling, gasping noise that didn't even sound human came from Spencer's mouth. And then there was a terrible coughing, and for all the world, Peter had a sudden vision of yet another person he loved dying right in front of his eyes, so close and yet so far away.

No.

NO!

And unthinkingly, Peter raised a hand and shot a blue ball of energized electricity at Sylar.

Instinctive and animalistic, his power naturally hadn't had time to charge properly, and when the energy-focus hit Sylar, it seemed to do nothing more than annoy the man.

But the turned around, leering, and his telekinetic grip on Spencer lessened ever-so-slightly.

"Attacking a man when his back is turned?" Sylar shook his head, tsk-ing, and wagging a finger. "Somehow," he sighed, "I expected more from you, Peter."

Panting, it was hard to make out Peter's next words. "Let. Him. Go."

Peter's voice was so cold, so low and dangerously controlled and pulsing with fury that somewhere, inside of his deathly haze, Reid heard it and shuddered, glad that he wasn't on the receiving end.

His hands reached up, again desperately trying to loosen the grip on his neck, only to find that nothing was there.

So. They were back to using their powers again.

Reid's blood froze when he heard that laugh, Sylar's laugh, the voice that would likely follow him to the end of his days – the one that would be in his nightmares from now on.

Well . . . assuming there would be a now on.

"Why so eager to end it all, Petrelli? As soon as I'm finished with you, he won't be alive too much longer to mourn the loss anyway."

"I didn't come here to listen to you." Peter spat. "I came to get Spence – and your head."

"Spence? You call him Spence?" Sylar again glanced at Reid, the level of amusement in his eyes more alarming than the anger he could see pulsing behind it.

"And here I thought I was being much too friendly calling you Dr. Reid, Spence."

Reid opened his mouth to say something, say anything – but his throat felt like it was on fire, and he couldn't make a sound. Peter met his eyes briefly, and there was a flash of something awful on his face – guilt mixed with agony and regret. And beneath that, rage – an anger so deep and unrelenting that Reid could almost see it coming off of him in waves.

Peter stepped forward again, his gaze locking once more with Sylar's. "I said, let him go."

The older man turned back to him, blinking slowly. "And if I don't?"

"I'll do what I came here to do." Peter said, opening up his fists slowly to reveal a burning orange flame in the middle of his palms. The light cast pale and foreboding over the three of them as they stared.

Sylar laughed. "You can't risk harming your little friend, Petrelli. I know you, I know what you are, how you work, . . . what makes you tick."

Peter's eyes again flickered over to Reid, and Sylar smirked, knowing.

"Exactly. You don't want to do anything to harm the precious Dr. Reid – because you care about him. And that, Petrelli, is always going to stop you from being special; you care too much about everything, and it stops you from achieving greatness. He stops you – " at this, Sylar shook his hands roughly, and Reid was dragged over the wall, his back scraping painfully against the stone.

He must have winced, because Peter yelled, "Stop!"

More surprisingly was the fact that Sylar did.

He looked back at Peter, his features alight. "You see? Even though he is nothing, you still can't put him at risk to take me down." He glanced meaningfully at the flame in Peter's palm, which had grown larger and brighter and stronger, but still had been used for nothing more than a smattering of light in the din.

"I won't kill him, and in return, you are going to stay exactly put. All I want is that delicious ability of yours, Peter. Just a few strands of your hindbrain cells, and we can all walk away from this. I'll leave Spencer behind, we go our separate ways – even you'll be just dandy, thanks to that marvelous healing ability of yours."

"You expect me to believe that?" Peter's voice was incredulous.

"What would make you think I'm lying?" Sylar's voice was still smooth, still simple and supple and confident. Scary.

"You remember Matt Parkman, Sylar? He's the cop you tried to kill in Kirby Plaza, the one you shot with his own bullets." A dark look crossed Peter's face at the memory, and his blazing eyes nearly glowed in the dark room.

"He gave me the ability hear people's thoughts. I'm listening to yours right now." A frown marred Sylar's confident smirk for just a heartbeat, and then his mask rippled easily back into place.

"You have no intention of leaving me alive – and why would you, when I'm one of the only people who can stop you on equal grounds?" Peter barked out a harsh laugh, bitter.

The sound normally would have broken his best friend's heart to hear.

But Reid was focusing on something else.

Peter was using his telepathy right now? As in, he could hear what Reid was thinking?

Peter.

If he had been standing, his knees would have collapsed in relief when Peter glanced at him very quickly, curious, before once more locking gazes with his opponent.

Oh Thank God.

Reid knew he didn't have it in him to talk right now; the burning sensation had spread from his throat to his chest and head, down his legs and up his arms and into his fingers and hands and toes. And the roiling, achy feelings, the dazed confusion the heat and the cold and the shaking and the trembling all combining into one noxious feeling of dread throughout his entire body made one thing virulently clear to Spencer Reid.

He was dying.

He had been fighting off the knowledge since Sylar first took him, that there was a very good chance he wasn't going to come out of this thing alive. And here it was. It was not torture that would take down the FBI agent in his prime. Not a gunshot wound, suicide, or drinking himself into oblivion (as the statistics so dictated).

No, Reid was going to die from radiation. He didn't have to see the burns on his neck to feel them blistering and bubbling – didn't have to be a medical doctor to know that he was deteriorating too fast to be saved.

He had an hour, maybe. Probably less.

And here his best friend was, ready to sacrifice himself in order to save Spencer. He didn't have to have Peter's mind-reading abilities to know that; it was the kind of man Peter was, and it broke Reid's heart that he would be willing to give up to keep him safe – especially when it wouldn't matter in the end.

Oh, death.

Reid was broken out of his revelatory cycle of thoughts by Sylar's voice – that foul chuckle, that wry, sanguine tone.

Reid shuddered.

"You caught me, Petrelli." Sylar simpered, eyes flashing dangerously. He let out a faked dramatic sigh. "And why shouldn't you be right? I have no desire to keep running from you and your romanticized view of the way the world should be." Sylar shook his head.

"No. No, when I kill you, you will stay dead."

Peter scoffed. "Like I said. Why would I let you anywhere near me?"

Syalr's eyes glinted in the little light that there was. "Because, Peter, I'll offer you a simple choice; at the end of this, here tonight, either you will be living, or Spencer and I are."

It was his worst nightmare, the thing he had known somehow all along would have to happen. But it didn't stop Peter's knees from nearly going weak.

" . . . What?"

Sylar smiled. "It's simple, really. You can keep up this little façade of heroism that you seem to be addicted to, and I'll snap the kid's neck. You'll kill me, of course, but I can accept that, at least knowing that your own self-inflicted demise won't be long to follow; I understand that you and Dr. Reid share quite a bond." His gaze flickered over both of them, and Reid tried not to flinch back from what he saw in those shark-like eyes, from what his evil captor was implying.

Sylar raised a brow at this, and then turned back to Peter, who was trembling with barely controlled rage, the flame in his hands almost consuming him – but still not matching the fire in his eyes.

"Or you can step up. No resistance. I'll get you down quickly enough, and take your ability – copy it, really, how fitting is that? It won't be painful – Dr. Reid here can testify to the fact that though I am going certainly to Hell, I'm no sadist." Sylar spat out the last part like it was dirty word.

He met Peter's eyes again, undeterred by the power they held in them. "Once I have that marvelous ability of yours, the murders stop – starting with your friend over there. I'll remove a few memories to make sure he's not going to spoil anything I need kept secret, and then he'll be delivered directly to the doorstep of his precious BAU. No harm, no foul, do you see? No one else who's special will have to die, the people you love will be safe – from me, at least – and you won't have to feel anymore of those blasted emotions – for your father, or mother, or Nathan, or Simone or Katie or Elle or Claire. Everyone wins. Especially us three." Sylar jerked his head slightly, encompassing the entire room in his knowing glance.

"Everyone wins," the villain repeated, licking his lips.

His logic, Reid hated to admit, sounded simple and ideal. Except, of course, that it all bordered on Peter allowing himself to be murdered. And it was manipulation, pure and simple. Eloquent and well-phrased, but distrustful anyway; the young FBI agent had seen many negotiations go down like this, where an offer was made that seemed too good to pass up, only, in the end, to be a fallacy that left everyone worse off – more broken, more damaged, more completely ruined – than they ever would have been before.

And it was wrong.

But one glance at Peter's face told him exactly what he most dreaded to think; his best friend would take the deal. It was written in the furious sparkle in his eyes, in the stubborn set of his jaw; he would die so that Spencer could live.

Peter has always been too good for his own good. Too humane, too kind. He would never embrace death, no. But if his sacrifice meant that someone else could be safe, the man would offer himself every time without question.

And he would do it now especially because it was Spencer.

But it wouldn't matter. In the end, his death would mean nothing, because Reid was already dying himself.

And Sylar would win all-around.

He had to stop this.

Peter, he called out, forcing his scattered thoughts to collect and focus as much as his compromised form would allow on the situation at hand. He had to succeed, he had to.

If not, Peter would be gone unnecessarily.

And then there really would be no point in living.

Peter. He tried again, struggling to catch the other man's eyes, begging for his attention.

But his oldest friend continued to lock gaze with their opponent, his face a flickering torrent of eclectic emotions.

Oh, God. He was caving.

Peter!

Dark eyes snapped to meet his, a flash of something bright in them before recognizing Reid's state and clouding with guilt and regret once more. A mournful look took over Peter's features, and it broke Reid's heart to see it.

But he couldn't allow himself to feel feelings right now. Reid shook his head fiercely, and forced himself to keep his eyes straight on his friends.

Quite literally, it was now or never.

Peter, don't!

He's lying.

Peter thought for a moment that he might have misheard his oldest friend in the world; that the words jangling about in his head were some sort of desperate last attempt by a fearful mind in order to give an excuse not to die.

Peter very much didn't want to.

But to hear those words, the very ones he had said earlier – really, it felt as though his mind had finally snapped and he was just making things up on the spot.

Am I crazy? He wondered briefly, panic and rage igniting a fire in his blood, while the flames in the palm of his hand grew larger and brighter. It was only when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye that the young man tore himself from his thoughts and looked over, just in time to see Spencer Reid shrink back into the wall behind him, his eyes wide, fearful.

Peter, please.

Please.

He's lying!

And there it was again, those words, that voice. It was the same voice as his best friend; but not one that fit with how he looked now – pale, scared, and sickly. It was the tone he had associated with Spencer not even three days ago, when he'd finally seen him again for the first time in a long time. It was the rich tenor of the guy he called best friend and would talk to over the phone for huge periods of time. The voice he had had at Peter's graduation celebration.

It didn't belong with those gaunt cheeks, the haunted eyes and tense muscles.

But it was there, and still speaking.

Peter, don't try to save me.

Sylar already killed me before you got here.

Some look of terror must have crossed his face, because Spencer immediately shook his head, frantic that his message wasn't getting across correctly.

I'm not dead!

Not yet.

The young genius lifted his neck up, very slowly overstretching his throat as he tilted his head sideways. And even in the dim light, Peter could clearly make out the dark bruises and burns fostering the white skin. Blisters, looking shiny and painful, and torn edges of flesh where it looked like knives on fire had cut right through. Or human hands.

Peter's blood ran cold, and for just a second, the flames in his hand flickered as though about to go out. But one glance at Sylar, at the impetuous man's sick grin, and his fury from earlier returned full force, rushing in his ears so loudly that he would have missed Spencer's next words, had they not already been inside of his mind.

He lost his temper – it was radiation.

Peter, I'm already gone.

Soon. Minutes, maybe less . . .

Just get rid of him, keep people safe, don't worry about me.

I'll be fine.

Fine. There was that damned word again, the one that Spencer seemed to think covered everything from the common cold to murder. Fine, just fine.

It was not fine.

Peter felt as though his very insides were about to collapse. Between the exhaustion of the past few days, the pain of so many revelations, that sickening, patronizing grin on Sylar's face, and the knowledge that for all of his effort, he had still arrived too late for his friend, made Peter want to curl up and take a good, long, bleak break from everything that had become the plight that was his life.

But he couldn't give up. Not even now, because –

because of something Adam Monroe had showed him.

He finally glanced away from Spencer, worried about making Sylar suspicious, and met black eyes that matched his own determined ones.

It was do-or-die time. But how was he going to get Sylar down?

The answer came slowly, as though out of a fog – and it was not some stroke of inner genius that Peter occasionally had; it was the voice of the one true genius he had ever known.

Peter, . . .

use me.

Reid saw the turmoil in the look that flashed across Peter's face when he sent out that last thought. But now was not the time to doubt, nor to be riddled by apprehension. He didn't have much longer either way, and Peter might not soon either.

He can sense your powers – hear when you're gearing up to use them.

He'll be paying attention to you.

Not me.

So use me.

Sylar's hold on the younger man had decreased in the minutes that he had been talking to Peter; though he had used Spencer for demonstration several times, moving him around the wall and slamming him into things without abandon, there was nothing so powerful keeping Reid attached to the stone behind him. He was sliding towards the floor, and without too much effort, he could move. It was painful, yes, but it meant at least one thing.

Sylar was distracted.

When he's not focusing, his powers are harder for him to control.

And he's angry. And tired.

You can beat him, Peter.

But you need to use me.

Sylar wasn't looking behind him. He would never see if Peter moved him around – maybe teleported him to the front of the room, or right in front of Sylar's damn nose. It would only take a split second of hesitance for Peter to have the advantage, and for Sylar to be gone from this world.

And Reid would be able to die in peace.

He gulped, wincing at the soreness that seemed to be spreading.

Definitely less than an hour.

The stray thought did not go unnoticed, and Peter shot him a very strange look indeed, and Reid shook his head minimally.

Peter, please.

You have to end this.

Oh, death.

Peter forced himself not to look at his friend again, and tried not to hear his thoughts.

Reid's inner voice had been growing fainter as his one-sided conversation continued, and it terrified Peter to think that in spite of everything he had done, his Spence still wouldn't make it.

He could save the world. But not one of the people who mattered most.

The thought twisted in his gut like a knife, and something alit in Peter's heart. A second, less literal kind of fire; determination, and the will to win.

This was finally it. In a million different ways, but no less so true.

His eyes met the cool pools of Sylar's own dark gaze, and he stared hard, thinking.

I only need a second.

Just one second.

Spencer can't talk –

– well, he actually can't breathe –

– NO, how can he distract Sylar if –

Use me

Throw him.

Peter glanced over at his friend one last time, alarmed to see the light beginning to fade from his eyes. His friend had meant it when he said – thought – he'd had only an hour left.

I am so, so sorry, Spencer. For everything.

"Well, Petrelli?"

" . . . I'm curious," Peter spoke slowly, sliding his eyes over to lock with Sylar's, making sure he had the man's complete attention so that he wouldn't look down and possibly notice as the fire in Peter's hands began to dissipate.

Sylar raised an eyebrow, and Peter moved on slowly. "What it must be like . . . dying. Permanently, that is."

His voice low and amused, it took the villain a moment to respond. "Luckily enough for you, you get to find out right now."

Peter shook his head, features hardening like steel. And he raised his empty hand.

"You first."

And then everything happened very quickly. A frown of horrible realization marred Sylar's features, and he whipped around, following the direction of Peter's extended arm. Not a moment later, the lanky body of Spencer Reid slammed into him at full force, literally throwing the both of them across the room and into the mirrored observational wall. Reid's body smashed through the glass, shattering it, and tumbled into the next room.

Sylar, not so badly hit, slumped to the floor for just a second – the one second that Peter needed.

Letting his anger fuel his powers, Peter picked up Sylar with his own telekinesis and smashed him against the wall, storming towards him, coat flapping around him so that, for all the world, he resembled the hero of a comic book cover page. Electric bolts flew from his fingers, singeing Sylar's hair and the wall around him leaving smoking black burns that filled the room with the smell of something rotten.

Sylar seemed relatively unimpressed with his tremendous display of power. He glanced over to the destroyed reflecting wall, and a small smirk lit up his face.

"Not the best way to dispose of a friend," he commented, turning just in time to see the rage contort Peter's face into a mask of agony. "But quicker than mine."

"You," Peter growled, his voice low and dangerous, "are a destructive force. An animal. Something terrible that kills all the good around it. And everyone in the world benefits tonight when you die here. Now."

"Except the person it would matter to most," Sylar countered, a sly smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. "Tell me, Peter – when dear Dr. Reid dies, how will it benefit you?"

Peter gulped, not willing to admit how sickened the thought made. "If Spencer dies . . . then it won't have been in vain."

Sylar shook his head, malevolence echoing in every one of his once-handsome features. "If? Still so hopeful, Petrelli – and that will be your downfall; if not by my hands, then by someone else's. I killed your friend; he will die, soon, and in a lot of pain." He smiled. "There's nothing more you can do to stop me."

Peter tightened his grip, gratified to see when Sylar began to choke a bit, his face turning red from the added pressure to his neck. "I can. And I will. I am."

"You'd – y-you'd murder someone in cold – blood?" Sylar splutterd out, still struggling to get enough air.

" . . . No. I'm doing justice." But that second's pause was all Sylar needed to make his one last move.

"You'd – c-commit murder while – your best friend – lay dying?" He gasped in a breath, before speaking again. "Don't you want to – hear his last words, Peter?"

A wave of heat exploded from inside Peter, and the force, combined with the hold he had on the other man's neck and the sparks still shooting from his fingers, made for a surge of unstoppable power that scattered throughout the room. Sylar's head was knocked back against the wall – hard – from the force of it, and the older man blacked out. The remaining glass in the window frame had disintegrated, and the bed in the room smashed against the wall, distorting itself into a misshapen, half-melted twist of metal and cloth.

Breathing hard, Peter looked around as he dropped his hands, tears pricking his eyes faintly when he saw all of the destruction he had caused. Had been capable of.

God, it was like he was Sylar.

He looked down at the unconscious man at his feet, and had just one more moment of anger before reality set in his bones.

Sylar had been right.

No matter how angry he was, how justified the actions – Peter had never been able to kill someone on purpose, and never in cold blood.

He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts back, trying to embrace the inner uncontrollable-ness that had caused the destruction surrounding him not moments ago, but . . .

But his hand stopped as he raised it, refusing to go further, refusing to ignite.

Refusing to hurt someone that, for all of the evil they had caused, was still defenseless at the moment.

Not in cold blood.

The fire exploded within him, and Peter could see the glow t his skin in the darkness – but still, he couldn't bring himself to unleash the pain. Not when it would harm another.

Not in cold blood.

Peter bit back a cry of fury, grinding his teeth so hard he swore he could taste powder in his mouth.

God damn it!

He raged inside of his own mind, fighting down the very tempting urge to reach out and kick the villain at his feet. He hated Sylar. Hated him.

But he couldn't kill him. Not like this.

Not in cold blood.

Disgusted with himself, Peter turned away from the sight, and was immediately confronted with the huge, broken pane of glass that –

– Oh, God, Spencer – !

No longer in control of his body, Peter ran forward, leaping over the edge of the frame.

Inside the miniscule observational room, there was a desk with a circa-90's computer on it, an old spinning chair, some boxes, and shards of glass scattered everywhere.

And there, in the middle of the room, covered in scratches and clearly not moving, was his best friend.

"Spence!" he called out, running frantically over to Reid, and crouching down. He gently lifted up genius, and turned his face so that their eyes met.

Reid slumped in his arms, face pale and body clammy. He was barely alive.

Their erratic breaths mixed as Peter leaned in closer, his hair falling over his eyes.

"Spencer," he whispered, brokenly, shaking the man a little bit.

The response was faint, sluggish.

Peter . . .

Forcing back an onslaught of tears, Peter leaned in close to Reid, his lips nearly touching the other man's ears.

"Spence, I'm so sorry, I – "

Don't . . . be. Sylar is . . . gone, right?

Guiltily, Peter glanced over at the crumpled form on the other side of the glass. The still-breathing crumpled form.

It doesn't matter, he justified to himself. He would deliver Sylar to the Company, and he would be as good as dead. He had more important things to be worried about at the moment anyway.

He turned back to Reid, his grip tightening when he felt the genius's already-minute breathing decease even more.

Thank you . . .

Fucking Hell. The kid was thanking him. Thanking him? When he had been the one to put Spencer in all this mess in the first place?

Thanking him.

I love you.

When he hadn't even been able to save – ?

Oh. Oh.

God.

"Spence," Peter said cautiously, shifting the body slightly in his arms. When there came no reply, he moved the figure a bit more, jerking his old friend's shoulders roughly.

"Spencer?" His voice broke, shaking almost as badly as he was.

"Spencer!"

Nothing.

Nothing at all, anymore.

Finally letting the tears he had been forcing himself to hold inside all this time, Peter buried his face in Reid's lifeless neck, his entire body shaking with what had just happened. With what he had let happen.

Oh, death.

Goddamnit! He slammed a fist hard against the floor, not even caring when he heard the bones crack, the knuckles splitting through the skin. It was pain. Just pain, which was deliciously simple compared to everything else he was feeling. The self-loathing, the agony, the ingratitude, his own worth . . .

If I had moved just a fucking tiny bit faster, swept across Peter's mind as he once more forced himself to look into his dead friend's cloudy eyes, I could have saved you.

Even as more water flooded his vision, the corner of Peter's eye caught onto something. His hand, healing – new skin covering the old, the bones moving back into their places, al of the blood that had spilled being recalled back into the pores.

And then it was like he had never been injured at all.

It brought an overwhelming feeling of bitterness into Peter.

He had been confident. So confident. When Nathan had been dying of radiation sickness – because of him – he had been able to get a then-friend to give some of his special, healing blood in an injection; and his brother had been fine, better than fine, actually.

Peter's most stretched-out hope had been that he could kill Sylar quickly, grab Reid, and teleport to Claire. He knew his niece would be more than willing to help him, especially for the friend that she had heard so much about. Her blood, like Adam's, would have cured the radiation. Would have saved Spencer.

Too late, now.

At that thought, Peter's eyes fell upon his hand once more, and an idea came to him.

A crazy idea. More of a hope. A dream. A last-chance, hail-Mary, do-or-die-because-I'm fucking-desperate-here wonder.

Could he – ?

Can I – ?

He could heal. It was in his blood.

Well, it had been in Claire's.

But he had copied it.

How much – ?

And Spencer . . .

Slowly, in a state made foggy by grief and desolation, Peter reached over Reid's face, brushing aside a stray strand of hair and speaking very softly.

"Spencer," he whispered, "I'm going to try something right now. I know you're nervous about all of these powers – what they mean, how they're used – but I can't sit here and do nothing. I can't live without you. I – I can't," he choked out, slowly, quietly.

"So forgive me for doing this – but I have to try something. Anything."

He reached over to a large shard of glass, embedded right over Spence's heart, and pulled it out with some difficulty. Glancing at his friend one more time and praying to some force out there that this could work, Peter dug the sharp piece deeply into his hand, wincing slightly at the pain.

When he felt blood dripping down his arm, Peter wasted no time, pressing his palm against the open wound in Reid's chest, letting his special DNA mix with the genius's own. Letting their blood flow and combine into one body, Reid's body.

And maybe . . .

He shuddered at the cold of his friend's abdomen, but forced himself to hold on until he felt warm pins zipping through his arm, and knew that his wound was closing.

Pulling away his fingers, Peter cradled his palm and watched the man before him for any sign of life, counting the seconds.

One, two, three . . .

Nothing.

Four, five, six . . .

Maybe he didn't use enough blood?

Seven, eight, nine . . .

Or maybe his DNA wasn't powerful enough? After all, healing wasn't actually technically his ability, he had just copied it from Claire when they first met . . .

Ten . . .

Or it was just because Spencer was dead. Dead, as in, already gone.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Peter's face crumpled as he was hit with the crushing realization, and he turned away, forcing himself not to scream into the dark room.

From somewhere above him, he could hear footsteps stomping on the floors, voices calling out, "FBI!" and the unmistakable sound of doors being kicked in.

Spencer's friends, here to save the day.

Too fucking late, he thought bitterly.

Nothing left to save.

He turned to look at Reid one more time before he went to take care of Sylar – oh, the things he had in mind! – but stopped abruptly when he caught sight of his friend's neck.

The bruises.

They were gone.

Not wanting to put too much on that little flutter of hope he felt inside of his chest – not yet, anyway – Peter leaned down, examining Spencer's body, all the while keeping an ear out for the sounds of the approaching BAU.

Several of the cuts on Spencer's skin had also disappeared– including the one that Peter himself had used as some sort of jerry-rigged IV. The blisters on his collar were smaller and less shiny. And his skin didn't look as ghostly as before.

Peter leaned in.

Dare he hope?

"Spence?"

But before he could garner a response, Peter heard the rapid-fire sound of running feet descending upon him.

Derek Morgan wasn't taking too much care in waiting the obligatory three seconds between the time when he yelled "FBI" and the time when he kicked open each door in the hallway. So far, all hi impatience had gotten him was a lot of empty rooms and an extremely sore foot.

Hotch and Ridges had taken the ground and second floors to clear, and somehow, Morgan had wound up getting stuck with the basement. Not that he minded too much – splitting up meant that they could cover more ground in less time, and find Reid quicker.

Because Morgan just knew that that bastard had taken Reid here.

He bashed in yet another wooden frame, and glanced around the abandoned office quickly before calling into the radio, "Clear!" to let his unit chief and the police detective know that he was almost through with the last row of rooms.

And still no Reid.

Morgan was rapidly getting frustrated with this. He knew his friend was here. He knew it – some sort of bond they shared minutely that had only grown stronger in the months since Reid's first abduction. Lately, Morgan could sense whenever Reid was struggling, when he needed a break, when he felt sick . . .

Right now, all he knew was that his fellow agent was close.

Very close.

"FBI!" He called, slamming the door open at the same time. A quick sweep of the room revealed nothing more than a computer chair.

Two left.

Come on. Please.

"Morgan, top floor is secure. No sign of Reid or suspect." Hotch's voice crackled through the radio. "Ridges, respond."

"Eight rooms left, Agent Hotchner – all of these are double suites, it's taking awhile. So far nothing."

"I'm coming down there. Morgan, report to the ground floor when you've finished."

"Gotcha." Morgan beeped in quickly, before dropping the walkie-talkie with a curse. While Hotch had made it sound perfectly congenial, he understood the meaning behind the words; his unit chief was already figuring that Reid wasn't here, that this possible lead had turned out to be just a whim. That they were wasting time clearing an entire empty building when they could be profiling and narrowing down much more likely possibilities for Sylar to be.

It made Morgan feel a heady combination of stupidity and overwhelming anger.

For now, though, he tried to push aside his won feelings and just focus on Reid. On finding.

Because he was going to, damnit.

"FBI!" He shouted, throat growing a bit hoarse by now. This time, he took a second to catch his breath before kicking open the door.

And nearly fell over onto a floor strewn with huge shards of glass, splintered wood, and bloodstains.

And over there, right underneath a smashed glass window panel, there was his best friend, curled up into a tiny ball, bruises mottling his pale skin and brown slashes staining his ripped and torn shirt.

"Reid!" Morgan gasped out, stumbling forward to the unconscious genius, so intent on at last finding him that he almost forgot to clear the room.

He glanced around quickly and saw nothing but a mess of chairs, desks, and a computer. And that smashed window – wait.

Why was there a window in a basement?

Morgan stepped over it, his insides literally aching from not being able to check on his friend, and glanced through the broken pane of glass.

What he saw literally made him stop breathing for a moment.

A room, not a big one – but one designed exactly like a prison cell. Something that had once been a standard single-bed was melted and destroyed beyond comprehension against one wall. More bloodstains on the floor, though not as many as were in here.

And against the wall closest to the window, completely unconscious, was . . . Sylar.

Sylar.

The fucking bastard.

Morgan immediately pulled out his gun and called, "Put your hands up, you son of a bitch!"

Nothing.

Keeping his piece trained on their suspect the entire time, Morgan reached down slowly and clicked his radio on.

"Guys, I found Reid. Suspect is in another room, but I'm not sure if he's alive or not. Waiting for some backup."

"Morgan – what was that? You're sure?" Hotch's voice sounded disbelieving over the static – like he was afraid to even hope.

"Yeah." Morgan's voice was quiet, tired. But victorious.

"We found him."

From in the corner of the small computer room, Peter watched, silent and invisible, as Morgan stormed in and immediately called for backup.

He watched as the unit chief who had earlier interrogated him ran in, along with that kind, pretty detective from earlier, relief evident on all of their faces as they saw that Sylar was incapacitated and that their agent and friend was still – if just barely – breathing.

He couldn't have said a word even if he wanted to – it was taking all of his remaining energy to employ the Haitian's powers and keep Sylar asleep and unable to use his abilities. That wouldn't last forever, but he knew as soon as they documented their arrest of Gabriel Gray, the Company would make their move, and he could be on his way.

Until then, though, he remained quiet and anonymous, merely watching as they put Sylar's unconscious self into cuffs and brought in a stretcher for Reid.

He said nothing as that Agent Morgan grasped his friend's hand tightly and guided the paramedics out.

He merely followed, a ghost of himself, thanking anyone who was listening that it was over.

Finally.