He wasn't a hero.
He knew that. Accepted it. He was perfectly alright with his role on the team. Morgan and Rossi and Hotch could kick down the doors and chase after suspects. He was comfortable being the brains, the go-to guy when it came to puzzles. The others respected him for it, and he was proud of his place.
But none of that mattered when he saw Emily hanging from the ceiling.
He didn't remember dragging a table across the room, or cutting her down with the small pocket knife he carried. He didn't remember laying her down, or removing the rope from her neck.
But he did remember her hair falling across her face, the blue that had started to taint her lips.
He tried to give her every ounce of breath that he had. He knew that it was impossible, a voice in the back of his head rattling off statistics about asphyxia and chances of survival after certain time intervals.
He told his brain to shut the hell up and focused on his friend.
And when she finally coughed and took a rattling breath in, any other voices were drowned out by his relief.