"Emily," I say urgently, shaking her. There's a heavy sick feeling in my heart. "Emily!"

She'd called me in the middle of study hall and I'd known deep in my gut that something was very wrong. I realize now that she was calling to say goodbye.

She blinks blearily at me, like she's surprised to see me, like she's forgotten she called me. "D-Derek?"

If the pills scattered across the dresser are any indication, she very well may have. I pull at her eyelids, finding her eyes bloodshot and dilated. "Emily, what did you take!?"

I'd known she was depressed, but I'm stunned that she would do this, that she would leave me like this. Things start to make sense, though – the sudden blunt chopping off of her hair, the unexpected gift of her treasured signed first edition copy of Mother Night...

"I... I'm sick," she stammers, almost apropos of nothing, "I'm so sick." Her face is waxy and ashen and she lurches forward suddenly. I barely manage to get the trash can in front of her before she vomits violently.

My stomach turns at the sight and I fight the urge to be sick myself as I hold her hair out of the way.

"I'm so tired," she whispers once she's finished throwing up. She's starting to slur her words and fear chases the bile up my throat.

"Just hang in there," I urge, squeezing her shoulder with one shaking hand. "Just stay awake a little longer, okay? I'm going to get you to the hospital."

I'm not entirely sure how, given that I don't have a license and haven't driven a day in my life...

"No!" she shrieks, sitting up suddenly, pushing me away from her with surprising force. "You can't! I want to die," she insists. Evidently, she hadn't planned for this, on someone stopping her.

"You're not going to die, princess," I say, the matter not up for debate. "I'm going to take care of you." She looks like she wants to argue with me. I don't give her the chance. "You're going to the hospital. End of story."

"Derek..." she says, but trails off with a pitiful little whimper of pain.

"I'm right here, you're going to be alright. Stay with me, baby, come on. Stay with me."

She opens her eyes, but the words that follow turn my blood to ice. "Let me go," she begs.

"No, no," I panic as her eyes flutter closed again. I clasp her hand, squeezing it for dear life as if I can anchor her here through sheer stubbornness. "I'm not letting you go." I struggle to find words, any words, that will keep from giving in to the encroaching darkness.

She means the world to me and I'm on the brink of losing her. The thought terrifies me. A world without Emily Prentiss isn't a world I want to live in. I've thought about suicide many times in the past, to escape Buford, to be with my father again, but the thought of abandoning my mama like that stays my hand every time. Then Emily came along and there suddenly seemed to be so many more reasons to live...I don't know that I can go back to living in a world without her in it.

I squeeze her hand tighter, hard enough that I'm afraid I might crack her dainty bones beneath my fingers. Her palm is clammy and limp in my grip. Her breath is laboured and each one seems like she won't take another.

"No, Emily, come on," I urge, my turn to beg, "Stay with me. If you can hear me, please, just squeeze my hand." She does, but only slightly, but it sends my hope skyrocketing, knowing there's still a little fight left in her. "Yes, there. There you go, baby. Just keep squeezing."

She's in the hospital for two weeks while her liver recovers.

I don't know who her mother pays off, but she doesn't end up spending any time on the psych ward.

The official story they're telling people is that she had severe food poisoning. But I know what really happened that day. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget as long as I live.

"Why did you do it?" I ask her when I visit. "Why, Em?"

"I don't know..." she says weakly, ashamed. She won't meet my eyes, staring intensely down at the blanket, tangling her fingers around a loose thread and tugging weakly.

"That's not good enough!" I say with more force than I'd intended, slamming my hands down on the little table beside her bed, rattling the vase of flowers I'd brought her – they look small and pathetic next to the bouquets her mother's friends sent, but it's all I could afford.

My ferocity seems to startle her. She looks up at me with wide frightened eyes and I feel bad for my outburst.

"I'm sorry," I say calmly, holding up my hands placatingly. "I just...I need a reason, Em, I need to know. You tried to kill yourself..."

She flinches as if the words cut her and she shushes me almost angrily.

"I won't stand by and watch you do this, Emily. If you're going to self-destruct, I won't be a part of it. I understand the desire to escape, maybe better than anyone, but suicide is not the answer and I won't stand idly by if you intend to go through with it." My voice is all intensity, my eyes all hard glare as I speak – she needs to know how serious I am. I'll love her 'til the end of time, but I won't stand for this.

Her eyes shine with tears and I don't allow myself to look into them because I know I'll soften if I do. "I'm sorry," she rasps around a lump in her throat. "I'm sorry, Derek, I never meant to hurt you..."

"Then, why?" I insist.

"I don't deserve to live," she says meekly, "I killed my baby... Father Guimino said I'm going to Hell and so is Aibhilin. I deserve it, but she doesn't, she's innocent."

"Screw him," I say ferociously. "God expects too much of fifteen year old kids."

She looks like she wants nothing more than to believe me, but just can't. She scoots over on the bed and asks softly, not for the first time, "Stay with me?"

I may be angry with her, with the choice she made, but she's scared and alone and she needs me. "Always."