Gibbs got him set up with the right doctors. Even went with him to some of the appointments. Like a child who needs their daddy to hold his hand, Tony's mind supplies. But now Tony's set up with his antidepressants, a concoction of meds that he was quick to agree to, too checked out of reality to really put up much of a fight. Honestly, he would have been quick to do anything if it meant he didn't have to talk about his feelings anymore. Plus with Gibbs on his back, Tony knew that meds were his only option after he refused therapy- well, that and he had to promise to call Gibbs if it ever got too bad. Like he would ever do that; that one and only time a couple months ago was embarrassing enough. At least Gibbs didn't make him tell McGee or Ziva. And, maybe foolishly optimistic, he thought that there was a chance that the meds really could help get rid of this numbness inside of him.

–-

He had actually been feeling a little better from the meds, he thinks, but he's not really sure; sometimes it's just hard to tell. And he usually tries to avoid thinking about those feelings. He doesn't feel quite so numb as before- he still is, sure, but in a different kind of way now. It's more like he just doesn't think about how depressed he is, how much better off he would be six feet under the ground- no, don't go there , he often stops himself. It happens much less now, but that doesn't mean the thoughts have gone away completely. It doesn't mean he's not exhausted. But things were going okay. It's been easier to keep it together and get through the days. He would even go so far as to say he felt relatively stable. Certainly not happy, but good enough.

He should have known that illusion had to shatter eventually.

Gibbs had to go out of town, something to do with his father and a health emergency. That left Tony in charge. Gibbs was hesitant, rightfully so after the last couple months, but Tony assured him it would be fine.

That was before the call came in.

It had been a rough case. A navy captain's 4 year old daughter, shot dead by the men who kidnapped her. Tony had just about got her back, was even holding onto her small hand as he attempted to extract her, all after an hour of hiding beside her, gaining her trust so she would cooperate during the escape.

And then later, Tony was right there, trying to talk them down, de-escalate the situation as they held a gun to the girl's head. She stared at Tony the whole time, her frightened face all but begging him to save her. He could hear her whispers of 'Tony' in between her quiet sniffles.

And then later, getting back to the bullpen, he headed straight for his desk so he could write up his report and get home as fast as possible. He was completely unaware of the concerned glances his teammates were throwing his way as he typed in silence, dried blood still on his fingertips. My fault. All my fault. He didn't break eye contact with his computer screen until he went to collect the freshly printed report, walked up the stairs past Gibbs' empty desk, out of the bullpen, and into the hands of the director, leaving before Vance had a chance to so much as utter a word of his expected discontent. Get in line, buddy.

He's back home in his apartment now, the long day behind him.

Only now the little girl's eyes- dead dead DEAD his mind screams at him- are burned into his thoughts. He refuses to look up as he finishes washing the blood off his fingers, aggressively scrubbing under his nails while staunchly staring anywhere but straight ahead at his bathroom mirror. He's too disgusted by what he'll see. The shame. Regret. Anger. Disappointment. Sadness. Helplessness. It's moments like these when he misses the complete and utter numbness he felt before. In a way where he wishes the depression could come and take him over, let him leave his mind and body for a bit. Let him breathe again without this heavy weight threatening to pull him back into the abyss. Into the abyss where it's dark and depressing but it's alluring because he could finally be done .

No stop. He's done it again. Gone back there where he knows he shouldn't. Promised Gibbs he would try his best not to. But it's just so hard to stay away from the familiarity of it all, and to ignore the temptations of everything finally being over. That thought alone relaxes him.

He opens his eyes and realizes the waters turned cold, his fingers now wrinkled but at least absent of her blood. He doesn't know how long he's been standing there.

He chances a look up into his spotlessly clean mirror to see a stranger looking back at him. He hates what he sees. What a fuck up, he thinks. God, how long has he been like this? Anger bubbles within him before he punches his reflection right in the face. The pain was blinding for a moment as the shards of glasses tore through his fist, blood immediately pooling from his knuckles.

Through the blinding pain he felt a moment of refreshment. Mind cleared. Clean. It's his blood that's spilled now, painting a picture across his white sink. It's stained with his blood. Not hers. Finally, he feels like he can breathe again.

But then the moment dissolves and she's back and the overwhelming emotions from the day seem to tear through him like a dam breaking. Why didn't I save her?

He paces around his apartment. Think of anything else, think of anything else , he urges himself desperately, a tinge of fear in his internal voice as panic begins to suffocate him. But all that comes up in his head are scared young eyes, quiet sniffles, and the knowledge that he couldn't save her. That she was counting on him and now she's dead.

He kneels down to the ground, falling on his knees. He's grabbing his hair and pulling it as hard as he can, grunting in a mix of pain and frustration. Anything to make the thoughts stop. To bring back the moment of calm clarity he felt earlier. Even the empty feeling that he'd manage to push to the back of his brain for the past couple months would be better than this.

But the thoughts won't stop and he knows that. Even after he recovers from this most recent traumatic event that life's brought him, there'll just be another. There's always another. Mom, the plague, Kate.. Even when there's not another, he doesn't want those few moments of calm before the next storm. The crushing feeling of hopelessness the meds have been keeping at bay start seeping back in. It reminds him that the bad is never going to outweigh the good. Because this dark cloud hanging over his head isn't rational. It won't let any amount of happiness or joy make it seem worth all of the pain, regret, shame, just absolute misery that he finds himself in, from no source other than just being alive. There's no play to run or case to solve that can figure out how to make life worth it. Because it's not.

Not to mention the self hate. God, he can't even stand to listen to himself think, he knows he should feel pretty lucky in the grand scheme of things, yet here he is whining about living the same shitty life that everyone else manages to do. But he can't stop himself. He doesn't know how they get through it without constantly feeling like they're a moment's notice away from killing themselves.

So no, he doesn't think the thoughts will ever stop. At least not until he's dead.