The Doctor's Patient

by SearchingforLethe

The one thing Spencer Reid feared the most was insanity. And now, kidnapped by a confusing new UnSub and subjected to his experiments, his fear might just become his reality.

33. Chapter 33

Disclaimer:Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.

Author's Note: WARNING! This chapter is filled with a lot of angst! Prepare yourself! Also, this chapter touches on some pretty painful stuff (or rather this whole story.) No offense is meant, and if any take offense, I am sorry.

SO! I am really nervous about this chapter- rewrote it over and over again before finally manning up and deciding to just post it! Don't hate me for it! I swear, it's all part of a bigger plan!

Chapter Thirty-Three: Make Believe

'It's all make believe, isn't it?' -Marilyn Monroe

Varney's trial was held in a different court room, with a different judge and different attorney and different prosecution. Twelve different jurors sat in the designated area. But the witness stand was exactly the same, Reid noted, groaning inwardly when he sat down on top of the uncomfortable wooden slab. The prosecution, it would seem, had wasted no time in putting the young genius on the stand, having claimed that it would sway the jury from the start- not that they would need much swaying. "We have enough physical and circumstantial evidence to send him directly to Hell, forget about jail," Will Phelps had boasted earlier while he ushered Reid into the court room.

But while the prosecutor was in law and order bliss, the agent was feeling less than confident. His hands gripped the ledge of the witness bar as he pointedly avoided looking at Varney. This was different from Andrew- very different.

When he had been sitting on the witness stand during Andrew's trial, he was frightened- not because of what might happen when he was there, in the same room with the man who tortured him, but because of what did happen. He had recalled the torture- relived it even! But even still he was able to remind himself that it was in the past, a scar fading more and more everyday. With Varney though, he was terrified. Absolutely terrified because there was something far more permanent about what he had done to him, something far more malicious.

While Andrew had left a wound that would eventually scar over, Varney had left a tattoo that would brand him for life.

He could feel the man burning glares into his skin, knowing that if he had the ability, he would kill Reid with his eyes.

And as he trembled unwillingly in the seat, eyes carefully tracing the speckled pattern of the floor, he tried to make sense of his fear, tried to break it down into words he could understand.

'Fear is controlled in the amygdala, though it is processed in other parts of the brain. The pre-frontal cortex observes the stimuli, the thalamus decides where the stimuli should be processed, the sensory cortex interprets it, the hippocampus retrieves memories to establish a context, the amygdala decodes the emotions and recalls specific fearful memories, and then the hypothalamus activates either the flight or fight response.'

It was working. The careful and calming recitation of the path and effects of fear had reigned in his focus and turned it away from his own fear. Like a self-mutilator using controlled physical pain to distract from the emotional pain, he was able to forget that Varney was right there, that the thousands of hands of the people in the court room were there. He was able to bring only one thing to the forefront of his mind.

This was why he loved facts- why he spouted them out as often as he did carbon dioxide from his lungs. They were concrete, they were constant, and they were grounding.

'When fear reaches the hypothalamus, it triggers an adrenaline rush and several physiological responses take place such as: endorphins being released so that the mind and body can temporarily overlook pain, hair standing on end to create the illusion of being larger and more intimidating, pupils dilating to enhance sight, breath quickening to increase oxygen flow, heart pumping faster to work blood through the muscles and brain, digestive, urinary and reproductive systems slowing down...'

"Dr. Spencer Reid."

He startled, his back straightening as his thoughts and facts of fear slammed to a halt in his mind. Phelps was standing in front of him, one elbow resting on the ledge of the witness stand as he held the bible out to him.

The young lawyer with a face as round as a cherub but as cocky as an alpha wolf then directed Reid in placing his hands in the proper order to be sworn in. Once the oath was completed and the bible was handed back to the judge, he smirked as he started the testimony.

Much like during Andrew's trial, he led him through a series of painful questions, to which Reid violently worked his nerves out on the stress ball. Hastily, he shoved memories away, determined not to break this time. His fingers dug into the ball, he shifted in the chair, he struggled to focus only on Phelps and the questions.

And somehow, he miraculously made it through the round of questioning, his foot tapping a quick and erratic beat. As Phelps walked around to the Prosecution desk, he felt himself heave a sigh of relief. 'Half way there,' he told himself.

"Mr. Ramos, you may cross-examine the witness," Judge Burton said, turning to the defense attorney. The lawyer rose from his seat, standing in front of the Defendant desk and forcing Reid to look over to him- and Varney.

But he couldn't look at him- he couldn't let his eyes take in the very man that had violated him so thoroughly. He couldn't sit there and squirm, and struggle with the memories that, as it was, were fighting to take center place in his mind.

He managed to do it though- managed to completely look over Varney, letting his eyes settle on the lawyer and nothing else.

Far more seasoned than Phelps and with an air of deserved confidence- parallel to Phelps's pervading arrogance- it was clear to see why Varney had chosen Steve Ramos to be his defense. His demeanor was enough to question the mountain of physical evidence against the middle-aged police officer, he seemed so at ease, so in control of the situation around him. As if he knew he could win the case, and therefore did not need to try very hard.

"Dr. Reid," he started, straightening the lapels of his jacket idly. "Your mother- a Miss Diana Reid...where is she right now? Could you tell the court?"

The air froze around him, invisible particles of hydrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide and nitrogen hung in the air unmoving like shining dust motes. His body still, he felt his jaw twitch as his lungs lurched back into movement- he hadn't even been aware that he had stopped breathing.

Licking his lips and swallowing heavily, he said, "She uh...she's...away."

Ramos inclined his head. "Away...where?"

Hazel eyes fluttered closed in frustration. "A sanitarium," came his strained answer.

Trying desperately to block out the mumbled words from across the expansive room, he honed in on the next question.

"A sanitarium, you say?" He didn't seem surprised at all. "Could you clarify what that is for those who may not know?"

He hesitated only a moment. "It's a psychiatric institution."

Ramos nodded as though in thought, his hand rising to cup his chin as he chewed theatrically on his lip. "A psychiatric institution. In other words, your mother is living in a mad house? An insane asylum? A happy hotel? A funny farm?" Smirking, he added, "I could go on all day, naming euphemisms for a sanitarium. But the fact remains that your mother is insane, correct?"

His jaw clenched, his teeth clamping down and grinding tightly, despite knowing how bad that was to do. His fingers flexed, muscles and tendons moving slowly in his hand as he did so. Pressing his eyes shut, he said in as calm a voice as he could manage, "Legally, yes."

Ramos nodded, as though considering the information in a new light. "What disorder does she have, exactly?"

A moment of hesitation followed the question, in which Reid shifted in his seat. Finally, the words came out, his eyes diverting away from the judging faces and to the cold, shiny floor. "Paranoid schizophrenia."

The lawyer looked impressed.

"Paranoid schizophrenia. Interesting," he said, his voice dripping with near tangent sarcasm. "Dr. Reid you're a smart young man- why don't you tell us what that means."

Angry, the agent-turned-witness sat up straighter, biting his lip. He knew exactly where this line of questioning was going, and he couldn't do a single thing about it. He was a pawn in a game of chess- a game in which each player would take turns, creating strategies and batting the other around like a cat to mouse. And he had to sit there and play into it.

"Paranoid Schizophrenia is a subtype of schizophrenia, a psychotic disorder. While paranoid schizophrenia is easier to live with than other types, as the symptoms are less detrimental, it is still accompanied by some well known symptoms of schizophrenia- hallucinations, delusions in which someone is out to get you, anxiety, anger, violence, emotional distance, and an argumentative behavior." His voice was sharp and flat with the regurgitation of information, sounding very much like a psychology article one might come across.

But Ramos flippantly ignored the deadpanned response, chewing his lip in thought. "And what is the likelihood of inheriting that same disease for you, Dr. Reid?"

The young genius couldn't help but feel a small, smug smile pull up on his lips. While he could rationally dissect his fear, he was never quite able to get rid of it, constantly shadowed by the possibilities of living like his mother. But now, the statistics would work in his favor.

"Low, actually, if the relative is a parent. About six percent chance, only a five percent greater chance than those who have no relation to schizophrenia patients." He paused for a moment, letting his smile widen at the blindsided look on Ramos's face before adding, "In fact, the chances don't even reach fifty percent. Identical twins are at the greatest risk, as there's a forty eight percent chance they will share the illness, but it never breaks half."

Biting his lip, he prevented himself from going any further. Had this been a different occasion- had he been simply conversing with his teammates- he would've then gone on with how interesting it was that it was forty eight percent connection, when identical twins were one hundred percent genetically similar. That that statistic was proof alone that not all of schizophrenia is genetic.

But he quieted himself, instead waiting patiently for Ramos to recover from the slight hitch in his game plan. And just like Reid knew he would, he steered himself right back on track.

"Someone has to be in that six percent, Spencer."

His smile faded and he felt his eyes harden into a glare. "I'm not crazy," he said, knowing before he spoke just how contradictory that defense sounded. Knowing how childish it made him seem.

Ramos- like a wolf encircling an injured fawn- grinned and said, "Have you ever heard the saying that only the insane think they're not insane?"

The young man's jaw dropped, memories slamming into him with such force he nearly fell over.

He remembered that feeling- tied to a bed, tortured, beaten at the hands of a merciless killer, forced to face his biggest fears. But more importantly, he remembered the frightening uncertainty of which reality was the reality he truly belonged in. For all he knew, this could all be a fabricated situation, and Andrew was just about sighing and losing hope that Spencer would ever get better. But it was the doubt that was the most painful, not knowing who was a friend and who was an enemy, not knowing which effigies were fake and which were tangible. And he could recall- clear as a midsummer day- the moment he had pondered the very same thing, knowing that a truly sane person will acknowledge their behavior as deviant.

And having the lawyer use his own logic against him while simultaneously being tied back down to that bed in his own mind was nearly too much to take.

"What are the symptoms of the onset of schizophrenia?" he asked, rhetorically, his arms spreading out as he turned to the jury. "Avoidance of eye contact, clumsy motor capabilities, apathy, overly acute senses to light and noises, hypersensitivity..." He stopped, nodding his head slowly and deliberately. "Traits that anyone who knows Dr. Reid will say he exhibits on a frequent basis."

He actually couldn't help but roll his eyes by that point, his patience wearing thin with this lawyer. Not only did he seem to work every underhanded scenario his manipulative brain could conceive, but he was demonstrating that he had absolutely no knowledge in the psychology field whatsoever.

"Coincidentally enough, they also happen to be symptoms of autistic disorders, something that," Reid paused, drawing in a great breath as he mimicked in a slow and purposeful voice, "Anyone who knows me will say I exhibit the traits of on a frequent basis." He pushed the memory away, the memory of him sitting on a rock beside Andrew, the cold water lapping at his feet.

'Have you ever been tested for Asperger's Syndrome?' the man had asked, distractedly as though he really had no interest whatsoever in discussing the potential autism of Dr. Reid.

'I wonder,' Reid thought to himself, 'If he was too busy thinking about kidnapping me to really care about that.'

Before he could contemplate the thought any further, Ramos said, "Are you claiming to have autism then, Dr. Reid? That's a rather bold statement, don't you think?"

The ends of Reid's mouth twitched with the vibrating anger that was quickly growing inside him. "Claiming I made it all up because I'm a paranoid schizophrenic like my mother is also rather bold," was his terse reply, his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed into a deep crease. It didn't take an in depth knowledge of human behavior to know that Hotch was most likely banging his head against a metaphorical wall upon hearing his subordinate's retort- there was nothing quite like mocking a lawyer to lower your credibility in a courtroom.

But he couldn't stop himself- his clenched fists were shaking with rage, his finger nails making holes that penetrated straight through the stress ball. It was bad enough that he had gone through the violation that Varney had put him through- violation no one should ever experience. And now he had to sit here and be accused of making it up with the help of a genetically diseased mind? It was more than invasive and humiliating- it was insulting.

And while he was a normally subdued man, he could only go so far before the rubber band of internal anger snapped.

'I spent months in a delusional state,' he told himself, his inner voice filled with raw determination. 'I will not have my sanity questioned again.'

"Dr. Reid, as much as I want to believe you," Ramos started, his voice soft enough to almost make that statement seem legitimate, "I find that the factors are building up against you." He stopped, pausing for what Reid could only assume was dramatic effect. But when the young genius refused to react, his face patient and unreadable as he blinked, waiting for him to continue, Ramos went on to say, "You're mother suffers from a disorder that distorts her perception of reality. A disorder that is not only hereditary, but that a handful of witnesses that we will call up here will say, under oath, that you exhibit traits of." And then, his lips pulling into a smile reminiscent of the Cheshire cat, he added, "And not to mention-" he reached over to the Defendant's desk and grabbed a folder- "Your recent history in dealing with psychoses."

His body jolted with the realization of what was about to happen next, a single and resonating heartbeat making his capillaries twitch as his eyes widened. No...

Turning to face the jury, he pulled the papers out from within the folder and raised it to be eye level, tapping the large pile of medical reports with the knuckles of his free hand. "I hold here the medical documentation concerning our witness. Medical documentation that clearly states that he is not in as clear a state of mind as he would make you think."

"Objection!" Phelps pleaded, his face a tinge of red and vacant of all its former pompous glory. "Medical conditions in the past are not indicative of the present condition and state of mind."

"I'll allow it," Burton said, waving a hand through the air carelessly. "Provided of course that Mr. Phelps can connect this incident to the trial."

With a grin of utter pleasure and arrogance, Ramos nodded politely to the judge, tilting his head to the side and pulling the papers toward him as he said in a booming voice, "According to these records from the Catskills Medical Regional Center, dated throughout early April, Dr. Spencer Reid suffered a psychotic fracture so severe that he was actually transferred to a residential assisted living program in Pennsylvania." He paused, giving his vast audience time to take in the information and be impressed.

"It says here that Dr. Reid was suffering from several symptoms, varying from post-traumatic stress disorder to delusions." Letting his arm fall to his side, the papers firmly in his grip, he turned to Reid and said, "Did that just happen to slip your mind? Because I find it hard to believe someone with a photographic memory would forget something of such importance."

Chewing his lips, Reid grimaced as he pierced his fingers through the seam of the stress ball, tearing it very nearly in half. "It was stressed induced," he managed to choke out, his throat closing in on him. "It's common for people undergoing a trauma to...separate themselves from it."

"Is it common to hallucinate dead people and abusive parents?"

Reid swallowed, his fingers jerking as he nearly let go of the stress ball. He knew it would come up- knew that his past would be displayed colorfully and for all to see. He had even prepared what to say. But for some reason, it was all escaping his mind, falling onto his tongue but not moving any further. He couldn't think of what to say, couldn't conjure any excuse.

His mouth felt dry, painful and raking with air as he tried to breath. "I...I don't..." he mumbled, his chin trembling.

"Don't what, Dr. Reid?" Ramos inquired, folding his arms over his chest. "You mean to tell me that it is a coincidence that you to have all these tell tale signs of schizophrenia, something that is in your genes, and went through a psychotic break, but are, and have always been perfectly sane?"

"I didn't say-" he started, trying to defend himself. But the lawyer just kept pressing his point further.

"It says here, in these medical documents- these legal documents- that you were just as insane as your mother! That you hallucinated just as she did, that you filled your head with delusions just as she did, and that you made stuff up, just as she did."

The man spoke with a passion now, no longer seeming bored with the trial at hand. His voice rose gradually and was ever steady- the voice of confidence and of being trained in speech. And all Reid could do was helplessly lean forward and back in his chair, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to find his place in the conversation. But his voice was meek in comparison and all that came out was the high-pitched start to syllables.

However, by the final insinuation, the young genius felt his eyes harden as he violently gripped the edge of the witness stand, steadying himself as he shook with the intensity of his anger. Speaking through clenched teeth, he said, "I did not make anything up."

Snorting, Ramos asked, "So there really were corpses haunting you all the time?"

Reid stuttered, his mind not thinking nearly as fast as was necessary before the shark-like lawyer turned around to the jury and said, in a booming voice, "That's right, ladies and gentleman! This young man had suffered several hallucinations and delusions. One of which involved him seeing corpses. Another involved him actually being Andrew Wright's patient, and believing that he was a mental patient, and believing that Wright was his treating doctor.

"It was during his incarceration by Andrew Wright that he fell into this psychotic episode, not after. And while he was being tortured and manipulated, he hallucinated, he had delusions, his mind created conspiracies...So, isn't it possible that his already overtaxed mind gave his attacker a familiar identity, the identity of Heath Varney, and that the real accomplice to this madman is still out there, ready to get his next victim? Or that maybe Varney was just as much a victim in this whole ordeal, forced by Andrew Wright to do all that he did and Dr. Reid just twisted his intentions to suit his own paranoid delusions? With this past, can you truly believe anything this man said happened?"

If Reid had been a bystander to the trial and having no connection to it in anyway, he probably might have applauded the defense, knowing that if the lawyer had any chance of winning, this would be the route. But he wasn't a bystander and he was more than connected to the case- he was living it. And the impressive way in which he would've viewed the ploy was overlooked by the furious anger that was coursing through him. His jaw was clenched painfully as he ground his teeth against each other, his nails digging into the palm of his hands now as the barrier of the stress ball failed.

"It was Varney, he did it because he wanted to" he said, loud and pointedly with every ounce of hatred he could summon forth.

Grinning, Ramos said, "I'm sure you thought it was, but-"

"No!" Reid nearly roared, sitting up taller in his chair as he shook his head fervently. His tongue stumbled over the next sentence, his mind whirring at the public admission, but he forced himself to say it, regardless of the dangerous pace of his heart. "He raped me, he raped five other innocent men, and he most certainly wouldn't stop there."

Swallowing the heavy mass that had collected in his throat, he continued, knowing he had the full attention of everyone in the courtroom. "Varney is a prime example of a power seeker- very rarely do men rape men because it's their sexual interest, it's almost always for power. He tried to fulfill his needs safely by role playing with his wife but because she was ultimately submissive to begin with, it didn't give him what he needed. So he jumped at the opportunity to, what he thought, was a sure fire way to get the power he wanted from people who were tortured to the point of having allegations of sexual abuse overlooked."

The room was silent with Reid's analysis, his eyes unwavering away from Ramos, burning into the lawyer as his jaw shook with the force of his rows of teeth crushing against the other. He was angry, first and foremost. Angry that a human being could ever use some fragile and delicate information against him. But he was also just tired.

So very tired.

He wanted it all to be over with already- the trials, the flashing media lights, the reporters. But most of all, he wanted the guilt to be gone. The self-hate, the humiliation, the paranoia, the distrust...everything that he had suffered as a result of the man before him- of the two men at the hands of the state. He wished he could just wake up in his bed at home, maybe to his cell phone ringing with Hotch on the other line, demanding that he get ready for their next case as if it were all back to normal.

As if he was still part of the team.

As if he weren't on a mandatory medical leave.

And he would wake up in his bed, in his apartment- not a hospital bed in a hospital room- and he would say, "Wow, what a detailed nightmare!" And then he would get up, after answering his phone, of course, and make some coffee, perhaps thinking every so often of the bizarre terrors his mind formulated whilst sleeping. But eventually, the day of work and profiling and looking over gruesome scenes would displace the nightmare, and Andrew and Varney would be nothing more than the memories of a dream.

But no matter how much he willed it, he would not wake. And he was forced - for the millionth time in counting- to accept this reality as his reality.

All he wanted to do was go back to the hospital and sleep.

He might've felt crazy in the trauma ward he was slowly considering home, but at least he was among like kind, and away from judging eyes.

Why did he agree to step into the place of judgment, where he was literally placed upon a pedestal for the sole purpose of judging?

He barely registered being ushered down from the witness stand, hands careful to avoid actually touching him and simply fluttering near his shoulder. He sat down on the bench, between JJ and Morgan, as always, and closed his eyes, turning off the trial around him. He couldn't even remember his examination ending, too trapped in his own mind to recall the lawyer's parting words. Not as if it mattered much what the underhanded attorney had said, anyway.

He was really starting to enjoy this whole forgetting thing.

xXx

Reid laid down on the large bed of the hotel, curling into himself as he slid a lithe arm under the pillow, propping it up, his knees nearly touching his chest. Using the toe of his right foot, he kicked of the shoe of the left, repeating the process as the sleek dress shoes fell unceremoniously to the floor. It had been on Hotch's somewhat forceful suggestion to wear the more professional shoes as opposed to his usual, well worn Converses. The young agent had only begrudgingly agreed to wear them, and delighted very much in watching them tumble over the edge of the silver bedding to the ground, hoping childishly that they got thoroughly scuffed on their travels.

He heard the floor groan as Morgan walked over to his own bed, undoing and dispensing his tie onto the mattress in one fluid motion. A strong arm reached out for the remote, turning the television on just as he fell down onto the bed, the springs creaking in response. Seeming to be oblivious to the protests of the room at his presence, he reclined, an arm behind his head, as he turned to Reid and asked, "Anything you want to watch in particular?"

He shrugged lazily, unmoving from his position on his side. It had not escaped Morgan's notice that Reid, a man who normally preferred to sleep as generously on the bed as possible with his long limbs covering the mattress, had started sleeping in a more closed in and protective orientation, as though bearing himself to an empty room would only result in more trauma. But he had chosen not to say anything about it, knowing that it would only make Reid feel more like he was being profiled, carefully watched for any signs of discourse. Still, it was cause to worry, and just another constant reminder that the normally nervous and mistrusting doctor would never be able to open up to anyone quite the same. Not anymore.

He changed the channel to that of the guide, watching as bars with programs and shows scrolled by, trying to find something that might interest Reid out of his self made cocoon. He finally settled on a History channel documentary, one that seemed right up his alley. The film was an exploration of linguistics and applying it to various forms of writing: from notes passed between the nobles in ancient times to recent literature and authors. It didn't take long- only five minutes- into the program for Reid to slowly unravel himself, poking his head out at first and then relaxing into a more leisurely position. Thirty minutes into it, and he was sitting up, hunched over his crossed legs and every so often commenting on a point of the film.

At one point, when the documentary was transitioning from one subtopic to another, he turned to Morgan's and said, "Semantics is really quite an interesting thing. There could be a whole series of documentaries on it alone, if you get to studying all the aspects! To name a few suggestions, there could be semantics as applied to the creation of languages, semantics as applied to the psychology of societies and groups of people, criminals, for one, would be interesting."

Morgan smiled, happy to see Reid resembling more of his former self. Of course, the only reason he had even lured him out of hiding so to speak was for the purpose of propelling him back into the unpleasant reality that was his life.

The dark agent sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It seemed that despite being an off duty agent, Hotch had every intention of making Morgan do some of the more emotional work regarding Reid and the case. Of course, Morgan had no problem with helping out where needed, especially if it was for Reid. But still, it grated on his nerves that the older profiler would give Morgan tasks when he wasn't, technically, under his authority.

The program ended momentarily, pausing for commercial break, and Morgan took that as his opportunity. Apologizing to no one in particular, knowing that he would ruin Reid's newly established good mood, he said, "Reid, man, let's talk about the trial."

The effect was almost immediate, Reid's face falling as the small, twitchy smile slipped from his features and was replaced by a sober grimace.

"I don't want to."

"I didn't ask you if you wanted to."

Shocked by the callous response, Reid swiveled around as gracefully as one could on a bed, narrowing his eyes in defiance at Morgan. "What makes you think I'll even partake in the conversation?"

Morgan sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Reid, just cooperate with me, alright?"

Stubbornly, the younger man raised his chin, looking down his nose. His lips were pressed together tightly as if to say 'Make me.'

Growling in frustration, Morgan stood up from his position on the bed, angrily turning the television set off and slamming the remote down on the mattress. Reid was such a different person now- not only in the sense of being a patient battling PTSD as well as a myriad of other emotional problems, but in the sense that his entire drive for living seemed to have plummeted.

While the genius was never really strong or boasting any physical expertise, he had always been a fighter, going down swinging until it was a completely and totally impossibility. It was one of the things Morgan admired most about his young coworker, impressed by the fiery spirit that resided in him, seemingly laying dormant until danger came in one form or another.

But now, all the fight was gone, and there were moments where Morgan found himself resisting the urge to grab his slender shoulders and shake him until he fought back, the need to live and strive that had once been so evident in Reid igniting once more. He couldn't, though, knowing that the slightest touch would upend him over the edge and into a flashback. And while he would fight back, it would be against the ghost of his past and nothing more, a reflex no more indicative of wanting to live than your lungs expanding and constricting.

Suicidal wasn't the term he would use to describe him, but more so hopeless as it seemed like, at any given moment, the man might lie down and refuse to get up, like being happy and fighting back was just too much work and he couldn't do it anymore.

'Like I could blame him,' Morgan thought, recalling the innumerable difficulties his friend had faced all throughout his life, buoying between one crisis to another. But why give up now? What had changed? Why didn't he even bother to want to be happy?

His little temper tantrum had succeeded in garnering Reid's attention, as the young man, startled by the sudden and seemingly inexplicable rage, cringed back, his eyes wide and vacant of all defiance. There was a passing moment in which Morgan considered apologizing for his outburst, deciding to let sleeping dogs lie in his fear to damage Reid anymore than what had already been done. But at those thoughts he heard JJ's voice in his mind, telling him to treat him no differently than he had before.

Should he? Would it wake Reid up to the condition of the conscious comatose patient he was, or only send him further into his isolation?

'It worked before,' he thought, remembering that moment when, months before, he and Reid had fought and he used tough love to get through the stubborn exterior. It was worth a shot.

"It really isn't fair, Reid. I spend months sitting in the office of some psychiatrist, waiting for my best friend to become lucid again. And then, when he finally does, he wants nothing to do with anything other than sleeping the days away," Morgan near shouted, stomping around the room and folding his arms over his broad chest. Insulted, Reid opened his mouth to argue, to spit a venomous comment about what was and wasn't fair but was quickly quieted as the tirade continued. "I try every technique in the god damn book to help! I try love, I try tough love, and nothing gets me anywhere. And then, when I tell you about the trials, I see, for the first time in almost a year, you! The old you! The determined you that didn't let enemies and UnSubs get the best of him. I thought, well maybe something clicked! Maybe now he's on the right track!"

He paused, letting the words and hopeful thoughts linger in the air before dropping his voice an octave and adding, "But then you go back to shutting the world out. What the hell am I supposed to do now, Reid? Twiddle my thumbs and wait for you to finally cooperate in your own damn treatment?"

Reid was effectively silenced now, leaning back from both shame and fear. Surprise was the emotion that had locked his features however, his mouth open in a wide o shape and his eyes wide enough to expose as much as what was physically possible. He was nearly frozen in place, his mind reeling from the fact that Morgan was yelling at him. From the fact that Morgan was saying such hurtful things.

'You wanted to be treated normally,' he reminded himself, or at least some conscious part of his mind reminded him, piping in from some recess of his brain that wasn't suspended in shock. But still, the way Morgan was so flippantly pushing the ordeal away took a stab of Reid's heart. As if, by the older man's standard's, his pain didn't matter. As if he should just wipe his tears away and get over it.

But he couldn't just get over something like that, and if that was what Morgan was expecting, he was in for a painful realization.

Finding his voice, Reid finally managed to say, "I don't know what your problem is, Morgan, but I don't think it's fair that you blame me for taking up so much of your precious time. I never asked you to stay at the hospital." If Morgan was surprised by the poison with which accompanied Reid's words, he didn't show it, casually rolling his eyes as he rubbed a hand over his shaved head.

"Dammit Reid, that's not the problem!"

"Then what is?" Reid yelled back, standing up to meet his impressive height. "What is the problem? The fact that I'm not jumping back to my old self? The fact that I'm not getting over it?"

"It's the fact that you're acting like you don't want to get over it!"

The room fell into a heavy silence, thick with the accusation. Morgan momentarily considered recanting his words, the affronted and hurt look on Reid's face immediately making him regret what he had said. But his resolve won the battle, and he remained quiet, knowing that deep down, that was what he had wanted to say.

Reid opened and closed his mouth several times, unsure of what to say. Was that really how he was portraying himself to the others? As someone so wrapped up in their own- he recoiled with the word- depression that he was comfortable in it, wearing the sadness like a favorite shirt and letting it envelope him entirely?

Swallowing, he said, "I do want to-"

"Do you?" Morgan challenged, grabbing a towel and wringing it in his hands as he handed, "Because it seems to me like the only thing you ever want to do now is be as far away from reality as possible, or sleeping."

Unable to maintain eye contact, Reid let his eyes fall down to the ground, the weight of the words pulling onto his heart and lodging it somewhere in his stomach to be burned by the churning acid. After a moment, he heard another heavy sigh from Morgan- the type of sigh one makes in defeat, the type of sigh one makes when one is hopeless.

"I'll be in the shower."

The door slammed close, leaving Reid to sit in the empty room, surrounded by the words and the hopeless sigh that seemed to echo in his ears.

Was Morgan giving up on him? Was the team giving up on him? Could he even blame them?

'You've been an invalid for a year. Even worse, you've been an invalid who is comfortable with being so,' his mind argued against him. It was true, wasn't it? He really wasn't putting in any effort to get better, was he?

Bringing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and placed his forehead on his knees, knobby and uncomfortable though they were. There was truth to what Morgan said, he knew. But he couldn't help it.

It was so much easier to lie in bed all day, to sleep and sleep until the only monsters he had to worry about were the ones in his nightmare. And if he took enough pills- put himself into a deep enough sleep- even those monsters weren't a problem.

Could anyone blame him for not wanting to pull himself out of bed and face another day? A day of forcing himself to appear okay? A day of pretending like human touch and the sight of hands wouldn't send him over the edge? A day of acting like he could focus on anything other than the memories of that week, which pressed on his skull like a migraine?

Anyone would want to slip back under those covers, wouldn't they?

'If that's the life you'll live,' a sardonic voice in his head started up, 'you might as well just kill yourself.'

He nearly gasped with the shock of his own thoughts. Was that it? Was he really one step away from suicide? Was that where he now stood in life- from acclaimed genius to victim on suicide watch? He recalled that time in the hospital, where Hotch had expressed concern for this very thing. He remembered his own thoughts, his own vow not to become so unresponsive that suicide was the only option. Where had it all gone? Where was that motivation Hotch had evoked?

Before he even knew he had moved he was turning to look at his bag, a bag filled with nearly four weeks worth of several types of high dosage medication. A handful, maybe two, was all that he would need to slow his system to the point of death. It would be so easy- so simple- to do. Morgan would be none the wiser, stepping out of his shower and seeing Reid lie down to sleep, not knowing until it was too late that he had lied down to die.

It was sick, the young agent new. But he couldn't help but garner some perverse joy from thinking of the reactions of his teammates. Would Morgan feel guilty at what he said? Would he hate Reid for killing himself? Would Hotch's cold exterior melt for once, giving way to the emotion of losing one of his own, one of his family?

His mind set it all up, enacted a play of how it would all happen. Morgan would come out from his shower, try to talk to Reid only to have the younger man turn his back on him and go to sleep, a lethal dose of pills laying in his stomach. Eventually, he would give up and go to sleep, waking up the next morning for court. He would try to shake Reid awake, at first realizing he was unnaturally cold and stiff, but ignoring it. After a minute of frantically trying to wake his friend, he would get Hotch, who would only confirm the inevitable: that the genius, the runt of the litter, the psych ward patient, had died during the night.

Died, leaving the legacy of a fallen FBI agent in his wake.

He reached down and grabbed the slash of his messenger bag, pulling it up and settling it into his lap. Flipping open the pocket, he looked inside at the stash of pills, ranging in colors of blue to white to a coppery-red. He could practically feel the chalky and bitter taste of the medications sitting on his tongue, making him cringe like one would with a lemon. He always hated when that happened, when the saliva in his mouth melted away at the pill before he had a chance to swallow it and he was left with the repulsive taste. He couldn't imagine having it be the last thing he tasted before he died.

Slipping a hand into the pocket, he pulled out the plastic bag of medication, delicately holding it in his hand as he examined its contents, each individually, foil wrapped pill. Could he really end it all, just like that?

'Overdose is one of the more preferred method of suicide to women,' he thought to himself, using his thumb to push aside the pills within the bag. 'Men are more likely to use more permanent or messier means, such as a gun or slitting their wrists, while women are likely to choose the "cleaner" options of hanging or overdose.'

It was poetic really, to commit suicide with pills meant to make you feel better, pills designed to help you sleep. In a way, they would be doing what they were meant to do, but in a more extreme way.

"To be or not to be," he muttered bitterly, bringing himself back once more to that room, to that moment with his mother when she read to him the beloved story of Hamlet. "Should I be concerned that my life is starting to resemble that of a Shakespearean play?" he questioned to the empty room, knowing by the rush of water through pipes that Morgan would not hear the almost worrisome query.

It was true that the parallels of his life were lining up drastically to the play. First revenge, now the famous soliloquy of suicide, of ending it all.

Reid stood, wandering over to the kitchenette to pour himself a glass of water, all the while repeating the all too familiar words. "To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them." Glass of water in tow, he sat down on the bed and proceeded to open the bag of pills, carefully selecting the one he recognized to be Seroquel.

"To die, to sleep, no more. And by a sleep, to say we end the heartache," he finished, popping one pill into his mouth and chasing it down with a hearty gulp of lukewarm water. He looked down at the rest of the pills in the open bag, taunting him.

"To be or not to be," he said, sighing in defeat.

xXx

It was easy to do at first, the small pills laying before him as if in a dare. Like one might approach riding a bike or overcoming some obstacle, Reid looked at the pills as though they were a challenge to be taken, a victory to claim. He had always regarded himself as a coward, finding it laughable in a perverse way that he had actually made it into the FBI when he couldn't even stand being in the dark! How did he ever find the courage to hunt down criminals when he acted like a real life version of Shaggy from Scooby Doo!, the slightest sigh of the wind sometimes enough to make him glance over his shoulder one too many times.

And so, it was with a sort of desperate mentality that he looked at the pills, not thinking himself a coward for taking them as he, only weeks before, thought he had to be in order to resort to suicide. But as a conqueror of something.

'I've failed at nearly everything I try to do- even something so simple as living!' he thought, his self loathing and frustration with his situation bursting out of the little box he had tried so hard to lock them in. 'At least, I can succeed at dying.'

Shouldn't be too hard, right? After all, how many times had he brushed against death in his past, how many hostage situations, fights with UnSubs and even anthrax poisonings had he lived through? It seemed like he was born with one leg in the grave, ready to jump in at a moments notice. In fact, the only thing that had kept him from going in sooner was stubbornness he harbored against...well, dying. Any time he would come close to making the final leap from this life, panic would always settle in, the need to fight and live overwhelming as his brain switched off all but his most primitive instincts. His breathing would quicken, only to have each breath be more shallow and unsatisfying than the last, feeling like there was a hole in his lungs and each intake of oxygen was just being mainstreamed straight through the leak. And in those states of breathing-without-breathing, he would do anything needed to live: kick, bite, scream, attack- if it meant the painful compression in his lungs and lightness to his head would subside, he'd do anything.

But what if he didn't?

What if he willed his body to embrace the chilling form of death? Willed it into a calm that followed him into the afterlife?

'It would be like sleeping,' he told himself, slowly overturning and examining the pill in his large hands. Like sleeping for forever, no monsters to answer to, no demanding tasks that would inevitably only have him reeling with the remembrance of his own traumas...Put most importantly, no more feeling like he did.

No more guilt, no more shame, no more embarrassment...

He wouldn't feel weak, he wouldn't feel hopeless, he wouldn't feel ready to jump out of his skin at anything that was outside of his comfort zone. And, as of recently, his comfort zone didn't incorporate a whole lost.

But still, the signal from his brain to his hand wouldn't work, and the pill remained stationary in his cupped palm, taunting him and saying that he was too much of a coward to face Death. He was growing frustrated with his own lack of will to do what he wanted to do, as though his mind and body were teaming up to go against him.

So he turned his mind against his body...

'Death is a perfectly natural process. The overdose of pills will eventually lead to a misstep in the sinus of the heart, disrupting the electrical rhythm and causing an arrhythmia. Cardiac Arrest will then be the most likely outcome, and, with the heart shutting down, the body will not be able to sustain life. From there, the body would begin to decay, nothing more than a network of carbon atoms going into a new phase...'

Science was so definitive, so reliable. The answers wouldn't change or fluctuate, and it calmed him, helped him dissociate who he was from what he was doing.

And he was able to swallow a handful pills, grimacing only at the taste.

xXx

The calm that had allowed him to take the handful of pills wore off, and the realization of what he had just done was settling into his mind, burrowing under the now slowly dying folds of his brain like a bug. And just like all the other times he had tempted fate, the air seemed to grow thinner, his lungs unable to expand far enough to get the right amount of oxygen in.

He hyperventilated deeply, his head whirring around in a dizzy stupor as though the pills had elicited a fast-acting high. His heart thumped in protest in his chest, and he felt lightheaded- whether from the knowledge of the what he had just done to himself or from the effects of it.

Empty foil packets were spread out around him, the dull light of the hotel room not enough to be caught on the reflective surface. He was perched on one leg, his left ankle tucked underneath him as his right foot dangled off the edge of the bed, his muscles flexing and retracting underneath the fabric of his argyle socks as he slowly began to rock himself, his limbs quivering.

'Just lie down, Spencer,' he tried to calmly command himself, his breathing now becoming a hideous, rattling sound with the panic. 'This is what you wanted, remember?'

Trying to obey his own thoughts, he lied himself down on his bed, only to find this position made it more difficult for his lungs to take in air. He shot back up so that his knees were pulled up in front of him, his shaky hand running through his hair.

Was it what he wanted?

He wanted the pain and the memories to just go away, yes, but did that really mean giving up his life? For the first time since he downed the two handfuls, he began to regret his actions. Was the decision made in haste? Was he really prepared to die, to leave everyone behind?

His breathing sped up, his lungs knotting together as all resources of oxygen were officially gone, black dots blurring his vision. 'Too fast,' some part of his mind managed to say over the roar in his ears that might as well have been the sound of a thrashing ocean relentlessly beating against a rocky shore. 'This isn't the pills, it's your panic. The pills wouldn't have acted this fast.'

But he refused to listen to his subconscious, stumbling out of the bed in his search for something- anything!- that might lessen the growing ache in his chest where his lungs were straining for air. The dots marring his vision thrust him into darkness however, and he was forced to grope around, flailing his hands through the air as he tried to steady himself enough to walk.

But as he grabbed hold of a surface- a table or dresser- his legs gave out beneath him and he tumbled to the ground in a mess of tangled limbs and panting breaths. His head thumped against the floor, adding another malady to the quickly growing list, and it was then that he knew he had a made an awful mistake.

Not because he was going to leave his family behind.

Not because he was going to die while grovelling on the floor.

Not because he was giving up.

But because he was reminded of how terribly and utterly human he was. Death was easy to overcome when all you saw was a mass of overworked cells and nerves, not when you enlarged the cells and nerves to form a human. In his determination to overcome and succeed at something, he had overlooked the fact that there wouldn't be a clean, definite ending to this. His cells wouldn't simply slow down to the point of inactivity, his heart wouldn't simply stop.

Was there an afterlife? Would he be condemned for killing for himself? Would he, as Dante wrote, live for all eternity in one of the circles of hell, punished for ruthlessly destroying all that God had so generously given him? Would his body be consumed by maggots, left to rot?

Death wasn't a science- death was a horrifying and utterly real thing, while science was a study, an observation. He was going to die- him, not the cells in his body, the basic building blocks of who he was, but everything about who he was.

He was going to writhe around in fear and panic, his lungs burning and his head feeling too heavy and too light at the exact same time. He wanted to scream but the tightening in his stomach made him feel like he just might vomit at any moment, praying that he would so that he could cleanse his body of the poison he stupidly forced upon it. But no matter how much he silently begged and no matter what disturbing images he summoned to his mind's eye, his stomach would only feel the heavy burden of nausea without releasing it.

The pounding in his ear was becoming too much and he managed to make a strangled, weak cry from his raking lungs. What was wrong with him? Why would he try to do this to himself? It had seemed so perfect, such a clean solution. Why wasn't it though? Why did his brain decide to reinforce the will to live after he consumed so many pills?

He let his body go limp and listless as he stilled himself on the floor, trying to force himself to relax enough that his lung might function again and his eyes clear themselves to unveil the room. Relax himself that he might actually be able to help himself for the first time in ages.

What had become of him? Did he really fall so low that he let the likes of Varney and Andrew get the better of him? Didn't he vow to do just the opposite of that? Didn't he vow to not commit such cowardice as suicide?

He wished he could take it all back, make the pills and the argument with Morgan all vanish. He wished he would've just cooperated instead of holing himself up once more in the isolation he was intent of creating. Why did he have to be so difficult? Wasn't he trained enough in psychology to know what not to do?

'It's different when you're the patient,' he said to himself, letting his eyelids unclench, happy to find the dotted mess that had been his vision slowly clearing up. His lungs were inflating some, no longer feeling as though the oxygen in them had been replaced with acid and like he could breathe somewhat.

Slowly, breathing through his nose and out of his mouth, he told himself, 'I am the patient now, not the doctor.'

It seemed so idiotic, so obvious, but it wasn't until that moment that his mind truly grasped the concept. He couldn't heal himself, he couldn't take the responsibility for doing it. He had to trust doctors to be as competent as he was if he ever wanted to attain any source of normalcy again. It was so unnatural to depend on others though that he denied it, opting to enclose his mind with a barbed wire fence than accept help.

But he needed it.

Tears rolled down the slope of his fevered cheeks and he pulled himself up from the ground on shaking limbs, the panic attack almost fully subsided by now.

He managed to walk over to the bathroom door, his palms resting against the cool wood. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he pulled his wrists back and rapped loudly.

There was a moment in which all he heard was the sound of the water from the shower hitting the porcelain tub, a steady beat that echoed in the tiled room. And then, the sound stopped, the voice of Morgan replacing it.

"Reid?" he asked, his words filled with regret and concern.

The young man wanted to say something, wanted to calmly explain how he needed Morgan's help. But as though hearing the voice of his friend- of his brother and closest companion- built upon the steady growth of regret, a glob of tears blocked his throat, and he could only make a gargling sound that strained on his vocal chords and made them sore.

Morgan responded immediately to the noise, the sounds of him pushing aside a curtain and sprinting through the bathroom managing to come through the door barrier. And then, the door was ripped open, the agent standing in the door frame, still soaked. Beads of water dripped down his shaved head and his pajamas clung to a wet body, patches of water visible in the white wife-beater he wore. His dark eyes looked down at Reid, softening and widening instantly at the sight.

"Reid..." he breathed, the weight of his regret evident in his speech.

He realized how he must've looked right then, slowly shrinking to the ground as his legs gave out beneath him, tears streaming profusely down his red cheeks, his hair mussed up as though he had tried to pull the tendrils out from his scalp in a moment of lunacy. And his whole body was convulsing, his shoulders jerking as his head could only move back and forth with the momentum, his lip swollen and quivering as he tried to speak through his tears.

Morgan bent down so that he was at eye level with Reid, shaking his head worriedly. "Reid, man, I'm sorry, about what I said. Really, I was just tired and frustrated at Hotch. I'm so sorry, don't cry because of me."

This only made Reid's breath hitch, his tears flow quicker and more consistently. If Morgan was this upset and this guilty just from seeing Reid cry, how would he react when he found out what the young man had done? How could he do this to his friends, his friends who only tried to help him, his friends who tolerated how stubborn he had been to his own treatment? He wanted to scream, yell at himself. He wished so desperately once more that everything could just be okay, that the pain and trauma that was the "road to recovery" would just disappear.

Why did being happy have to be so damn hard?

"I'm so sorry, Reid," he heard Morgan plead over his rambling and tumultuous thoughts. He never realized before now just how mutinous his own mind was, not once letting the thoughts and memories that only jabbed more at his heart end. His eidetic memory being the leader of the onslaught, everything remembered in perfect, terrifying detail.

"Reid, talk to me, please!"

He jolted, the begging voice jarring him out of his thoughts. He looked at Morgan, startled by the look of helplessness that seemed so unfamiliar on the dark face. Was that what it took to make the mighty agent crumple? Was his weakness seeing a friend in pain and being unable to do a damned thing about it? How long had Morgan felt this way, like he wasn't even strong enough to fight off the demons that only Reid could see?

His face crumpled from the tears, feeling all the more useless. Why had he been so selfish? Why had he been so weak?

"I...I'm sorry!" he choked out through the lump in his throat, desperately trying to swallow it down so that he could tell Morgan what he did, so that he could get the help he was finally willing to accept.

"No, no, no!" he heard the man say quickly, the softness and regret still lingering in his baritone voice. "You have no reason to be...I-"

"NO!" Reid managed to yell, the frustration with himself increasing greatly at his own inability to communicate.

He barely registered the startled way Morgan pulled back, an affronted look gracing his features. He opened his mouth as though to try to calm Reid, but the younger agent, finally taking a hold of himself, added, "My fault...I'm sorry...the pills..."

The words confused Morgan, who furrowed his brows in questioning. But then, it dawned on him, his profiler instincts taking over as his eyes widened to an impossible girth, his lips parting as he gasped out in shock. He stood, twisting his body to look over at Reid's bed, littered with little foil wrappers.

Empty foil wrappers.

"No," Morgan said in disbelief, shaking his head as he looked back Reid, demanding with his eyes that Reid deny it, tell him that he hadn't taken so many pills. But when the young man could do nothing but bite his lip in shame and look away, he crashed back to earth with the startling reality, his broad chest rising and falling unsteadily as he panicked.

Had the situation not been so dire, and had Morgan not been so emotionally involved, he would've reminded himself to remain calm. He would've remembered his training and would've asked Reid to explain everything about what had happened, the questions he had been taught to ask flying through his head.

"Did you actually take the pills or just think of taking them?"

"What did you take?"

"How many did you take?"

And then he would've called for an ambulance, sending the anonymous person to the nearest medical facility for help.

But this wasn't an anonymous person.

This was Reid, his coworker, his friend, and his family. A man he had literally risked his life for, and vice versa. Any sort of thinking, training or logistics flew out the window, his heart pounding faster and harder than it ever did. No bomb or UnSub he had worked with had ever elicited such a panicked response, and it seemed he had lost complete control of his body, his conscious mind stepping back and letting his actions go onto autopilot.

And so, not even thinking to get Reid to talk, not even thinking to get Hotch from the next room, he grabbed Reid by the arms, his grip tight and bruising. This frightened the young agent immensely, causing him to jump and yelp with surprise as he instantly starting struggling against Morgan's hold. But the former police officer was stronger than Reid, and he managed to pick him up and pull him into the bathroom, not bothered in the slightest by the way in which Reid kicked and struggled in his grasp.

It didn't occur to Morgan that he had probably triggered flashbacks, that he had potentially sent Reid spiraling back into the past that haunted him enough as it was. All he could think of was getting the pills out of his system before they could cause any permanent damage, his mind unable to even conjure the meaning of permanent damage at the time.

But Reid wasn't cooperating, the touch of skin against his own- of hands reaching for him- had pushed him back once more into the icy cold cavern of his mind, the memories assaulting him like a bullet ripping through his brain. It wasn't Morgan's hands grabbing him, but Varney's, and his skin began to itch with the unwanted touch, feeling like bugs had burrowed underneath and were crawling under his skin and over his muscles, twitching little feelers. He felt dirty, like the bugs were leaving behind trails of dirt, and all he could think of was the disgusting combination of blood and ejaculate coating his thighs, congealing and making his legs sticky and warm, shaking in pain. He felt a pain clench around his wrists, the bruising cuffs pinching into his skin and the coolness of the blindfold sliding down his nose only made him struggle more, the hands not leaving from under his arms as he was carried.

And then suddenly he was dropped down, a figure coming into place behind him, one arm wrapping around his torso to hold him in place. His breathing hitched and sped up to a dangerous place as his movements became even more frantic and desperate, not aware that it was Morgan behind him and not Varney. He grabbed onto the arm around his chest, digging his nails into the tough skin as hard as he could, thrashing his legs through the air.

"No, stop!" Reid begged, his voice small and anxious as he misinterpreted Morgan's action.

Ignoring the plea, the older man pried open the genius's mouth with his fingers, shoving them inside quickly and forcefully. Reid's body stilled for a moment, only to be jolted back to life as he gagged violently, instinctively pulling away from Morgan as his stomach heaved. But Morgan was persistent, acting as a wall against Reid, and, in a matter of seconds, his goal had been reached.

Morgan quickly retracted his hand, replacing it on Reid's back as he hunched over the porcelain basin and vomited the contents of his stomach. He winced at the choking sounds, wanting to apologize but unable to do so, the words dying before they even made it to his lips. Because he wasn't sorry, not really. Not if it was for Reid's own good.

Reid coughed, his throat scraping painfully with the action, as he leaned back only to lurch forward when his back collided against Morgan's chest. He scrambled away from the agent, coming to his feet and walking on unsteady legs into the hall and the conjoined room, where he finally collapsed on an armchair, panting heavily and clearing his throat as though it might make the taste of bile and vomit disappear from his mouth.

The violent wrenching still twisting his stomach into tightly coiled knots. He leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees as he shook, now from the unsteady feeling of being sick than from the panic. Vomiting had driven his mind's focus away from the memories and the flashbacks that were now deeply hidden once more in the recesses of his mind, and he no longer saw himself in that damned hospital room, with Varney violating him. The pain of the dry rake of his throat that stung raw with every shuddering breath was enough to center his mind, wincing at both the residual taste on his tongue and the burn that ran up and down the length of his esophagus.

"Why?"

He looked up at Morgan, who had moved away from the bathroom and now stood leaning against the wall of the narrow corridor leading from the door to the opening of the bedroom, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. An indiscernible expression was in place on his face, his lips parted slightly and his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Reid, as though the answer was written in fine print on his forehead and he was struggling to read it.

Feeling uncomfortable under the intense stare, Reid shifted in his seat and turned away, deciding instead to look at the floor. Several long minutes passed before he heard Morgan shuffle through the room.

"Get your coat," he said, his voice low and unmistakeably shaken.

Reid looked up at this, watching as Morgan grabbed a shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. "Where...where are we going?" he asked, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. Was he going to bring him back to the residential facility? Had he destroyed all semblance of trust that he had between him and his team now?

"The emergency room," was the curt reply as Morgan disappeared once more into the bathroom.

Unable to move, Reid remained sitting in the chair, his eyes lingering on the white, traditional style door, wide and glassy. It made sense that Morgan would want to take him to the ER, after all, there was no guarantee that inducing vomiting had completely cleared the drug from his systems. But he by no means wanted to go. What if they made him go back? He needed to stay for the end of the trials. Maybe seeing Varney be put away for good would be all he needed to get jolted back into the real world- a world where he wasn't a useless and, apparently, suicidal, invalid.

He was motionless as Morgan moved around him, gathering the pills and packets- the empty and the filled- back into the plastic bag and slipping them into his pocket, deep and fully from view, Reid noticed. The man even made sure to collect pajamas and a change of clothes for Reid, claiming that, at the very least, he'd be spending the night in the hospital. He handed Reid his coat and shoes before knocking on the door to Hotch's room, nearly barging in.

It went as a blur, slow and drawn out, with the sound of his own blood overpowering the real sounds surrounding him. Even as a half-asleep Hotch gracelessly entered the shared room to talk to Morgan in hushed tones- as surely they didn't want Reid alone for too long- he heard nothing but the rush and roar of blood. Yet somehow he managed to stand when Morgan asked him to, managed to walk with him to the car, meeting up with a now fully awake Hotch. No one said anything on the way to the hospital.

And Reid was very thankful for that.

xXx

Staying in the emergency room as a suicidal patient was leagues different than staying there as a victim, the young man was very displeased to notice. Was that really how it went? Did the doctors and nurses really regard you as some second list patient when compared to the ones who actually valued their lives? Did that make it easier for them to want to save their lives, knowing that it would be properly appreciated? How many people did they rescue from various UnSubs, just to throw them into the hands of such biased medical staff?

They all seemed to give Reid a look, a look that said, 'There must be something so wrong with you to do that. What's so bad you have to kill yourself?'

Through the intake process, in which Reid allowed Morgan to do most of the talking, he sat staring down at the floor, his eyes carefully trained on finding images and forms in the carpet. He only just barely paid attention to what was being said, too ashamed to fully focus.

"Did he say he took the pills?" the nurse asked, not even bothering to speak to Reid by this point.

Morgan considered the question before saying, in a tired voice, "No, but he did mention pills and I saw the pile of empty foil packets. I just assumed."

The nurse nodded, jotting the information down. When she was finished, she looked up at Hotch and Morgan and said, "The doctor will be here shortly. I'll give him the bag of pills you gave me and he'll see what needs to be done. It didn't look like too much was ingested, and, depending on the dosage levels of the ones he did take, we may not have to do anything. But better safe than sorry."

She stood from her chair, finally turning to Reid. "Follow me please, Spencer."

"Dr. Reid," Hotch corrected, receiving a barely concealed look of surprise from the nurse. "He's Dr. Reid."

She nodded after a moment, realizing that the stoic man was being serious, before turning back to Reid and said, "Alright then, Dr. Reid. Follow me."

She lead them to the Emergency Room triage, past a wall lined of curtains that shielded the immediately sick and injured from view. Some of the more able patients were sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs by the nurses' station in the center of the large room. The nurse stopped at the far end, where individual rooms stood instead of simply enclosed sections. But unlike the enclosed sections which were equipped with typical hospital beds and various counter tops and drawers, these rooms contained only a bed. The bed was placed in the center of the room, directly in front of the door frame- no door available- with wide windows flanking the sides. The bed was far more intimidating than the ones Reid had become accustomed to, looking like an awful cross between a dentist chair and a bed. Levers were strewn about the pedestal of the device, which was one large, metal base as opposed to four, slim legs. Railings marked each side of the bed and straps hung limp, swaying ominously in the only way they could without a direct breeze.

Reid stilled upon seeing this, his eyes widening and his throat growing raw.

"They're not going to use them on you, Reid," Morgan said, encouraging the man to move forward. But he only made it a step before he was startled by a gruff, new voice.

"A new one?"

Turning in the direction of the voice, he was shocked to see a police officer sitting in front of the back rooms, a tray to the side of his chair that was being used as a temporary desk for the cop. The cop himself was older, in his mid forties, and overweight, his large belly stretching out the starched fabric of his black uniform. A gray mustache covered his upper lip, thin wire glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. But he removed them as he sighed, placing the book he had been reading down as the nurse gestured to the room in the most direct view of the officer- Room 3.

"Yes, Doctor Hart should be here for him soon," she said, nodding so that the bob of blonde hair bounced.

"Alright," the officer said flippantly, watching as the three agents entered the room, followed by the nurse.

"You can lie down on the bed, Dr. Reid. We can get you a blanket, once Dr. Hart gives us permission to. It's not normally standard for us to supply them in these rooms, but I'm sure he'll allow us to get one for you," she said, not aware to the way her words made Reid cringe.

'By 'these rooms' she means the rooms they use to temporarily store the ones who are a danger to their lives or others,' he thought with startling clarity, suddenly hating himself for understanding it. This room was designed specifically for people who couldn't be trusted with anything but a bed, let alone the privacy the other patients were afforded. Blinds were placed over the windows in a half-hearted attempt to convey the illusion of seclusion, but they were fully drawn and there was no visible way to close them.

He clambered up onto the bed, the inclined platform of the mattress forcing him to half-sit up in it. He sent a sideways glance at the cop, who was staring at him with a bored expression. Even with Hotch and Morgan here, he still had to be supervised by a hospital authorized officer. He was being babysat by someone miles below him on the career food chain.

'Not like you don't deserve this,' a voice snorted to him in his mind, berating him for his rash decision only an hour or so before.

Hotch sighed, drawing Reid's attention away from the police officer. "I'm going to get us chairs and some coffee, we'll be here awhile," he said, forcing a tight lipped, grim shadow of a smile to the young genius before nodding to Morgan, exiting the room in his ever present businesslike manner.

Reid swallowed nervously, averting his eyes to the floor as Morgan leaned against a wall, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

After a moment, the dark man spoke. "I'm sorry," he said, in a low and cracked voice.

Reid shook his head. "You shouldn't-"

"No, Reid," Morgan interrupted, bringing his hands up and running them over his shaved head. "I should be. What I said was..." he paused, trying to find the right words. But before he could, Reid spoke.

"What you said was right...I...Morgan, I'm not strong enough to get better. The sooner you and the team accept that, the sooner we can all move on." Reid looked away then, the slight burn of tears in his eyes making him squint. He wasn't strong enough to relive that week, he wasn't strong enough to overcome his demons. He just barely survived it once, why tempt fate?

"Reid," Morgan said, his voice stern but soft. "You and I know that ain't true. Varney and Andrew are just like any other UnSub we've encountered."

Shaking his head, the younger man pressed, "No! They're not. They-"

But Morgan ignored him, speaking as though he hadn't been interrupted. "Just like Foyet was another UnSub, and Doyle, and Frank...and Carl Buford. They're nothing more than sickos who are too inferior to earn respect and power the way we do. The only way they can get it is by degrading others and overpowering them. Think of it, none of them were even brave enough to take us on unless we were disadvantaged."

Raising his hand and counting off on his fingers, he said, "Both Foyet and Frank were so weak that the only way they could get to Hotch and Gideon was through a surprise attack. Doyle could only get to Prentiss by threatening us, her team. Buford preyed on children who he convinced into thinking that they needed him to make something of their lives. And Andrew and Varney..." he sighed, letting his hand fall to his lap. "They could only get to you by using your worst fear against you."

Reid diverted his eyes away, letting them focus on the single rows of plastic of the blinds that shielded the window, lazily watching as the Rent-A-Cop picked idly at his nails, paying no attention to the two agents he was supposed to be supervising. A hard lump was forming in his throat, pressing into his larynx and trachea, making it feel like the muscles of his neck were slowly tightening around the windpipe.

He was just so exhausted!

His mind was so torn, alternatively agreeing with Morgan one moment and than fervently denying what he was saying the next. Like one moment he was swept up into a wave of motivation, ready and prepared to do whatever necessary to get back to his old self, and then in the blink of an eye he was deflated of all gusto, defeated and wanting only to crawl under heavy covers and forget the world ever existed.

He was not familiar with this. Sure, he had had cases in which he had felt empathy for the UnSub, but never before had he been so stricken with confusion. His thoughts and opinions were completely separate, one standing on a divide opposite the other.

'This must be what it feels like to have Borderline Personality,' he mused, a slight headache starting to form from the sheer indecisiveness of his own will to live and to truly live. Why did it have to be so difficult? By this point, he didn't care whether he was suicidal or content with his life- just so long as he could commit to one.

"No one said it would be easy, Reid," Morgan's voice came through, drawing the young man out of his thoughts. "There will be times where you feel alright with everything, and then there will be times like this. But I promise you, Pretty Boy, we'll be there through all of it."

Reid looked up at him then, surprised to see the dark brown eyes misty with unshed tears. Tentatively, the dark man forced a wavering smile onto his face, one that seemed entirely out of place with his glossy eyes. "You can't get rid of us that easily."

The young genius managed only to return the smile with his own, attempting desperately to block out his own condemning thoughts. They weren't there when it mattered most...

A quick rapping filled the room, and Morgan and Reid looked up to see a doctor in what appeared to be his early forties, with thinning hair that was sandy in color and deep creases crinkling at his eyes and around his mouth. An ever-present smile graced his face and he nodded in Morgan's direction before turning to Reid. "You must be Dr. Reid." He barely waited for a nod in response before adding, "I'm Dr. Hart, the emergency psychiatrist here. Would you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?"

He bit his lip before he could respond with 'Do I have a choice?' and instead answered, "Yeah, sure."

"Good! Now, would you like some privacy, or would you feel more comfortable with your coworker here?" he asked, seating himself on the sill of the window as he placed his clipboard down on his lap.

He hesitated, unsure of how to answer. On one hand, he still felt uneasy around new people, and having a familiar face- particularly that of a close friend- helped him level his anxiety. But he still wasn't sure of what the doctor might ask him, and whether or not he wanted Morgan to be there for his answers.

Sensing the uncertainty, Dr. Hart shook his head and said, "How about we get started and if at any point you want some privacy, just let me know, alright?"

He exhaled the breath he wasn't aware he was holding. Liking that idea, he nodded, waiting for the doctor to begin his questions.

The man pulled his clipboard closer, stating, "Well, first, let me say that after examined the bag of pills Agent Morgan brought in- thank you, by the way, it made this task much simpler, I was able to conclude that most of the pills you took were Seroquel. As I'm sure you know, Seroquel is one of the safest drugs we offer of its type, and is often prescribed to children for this reason," he lowered the board, smiling at Reid as he said, "you'll be fine. Of course, we're still going to continue observations and would like for you to provide a urine sample once I'm done speaking with you, but I feel confident in saying that you would've needed a lot more Seroquel in your system than what you had. At the moment, were more concerned with the other drugs you took.

"We were able to break it down. Provided that you all of the foil wrappers were from tonight, you took a total of twenty-four pills. Fifteen of which were the Seroquel, six were the Klonopin, and three were Wellbutrin. You'll be fine, but we're going have to change the pills you take. Because of your specific case, we're going to let your treating doctor at the residential do that for you, since he's more familiar with you and what might help.

"Unfortunately," he added, smiling sadly at Reid, "that means we cannot provide you with any pills, and as a result, you'll start to experience withdrawal symptoms. Because you used Seroquel for sleep, it is likely that you will also suffer some sleep loss. Hopefully, we can find a safe alternative for you in the meantime to hold you over until you return to your hospital."

Reid nodded, huffing out in discontentment. 'Great, now I can't even sleep everything away,' he thought, biting his lip. He didn't care how weak it sounded- he was tired of trying to be strong.

"The first question I have to ask you is one I want your full honesty on- can you do that for?"

He looked up at him, feeling a pang of irritation. He hated this condescending manner in which the typical psychologist seemed to carry with them. But pushing his retorts down, he acquiesced.

"Why did you do it?"

The room stilled, molecules hanging in the air as they stopped their erratic movement, the temperature dropping immensely, but becoming more stifling all the same. He bit his lip, chewing and turning it over with his teeth as he turned to look at Morgan, his heart pounding out ferociously. The man was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows propped up on his knees and his chin resting on his knuckles. He was looking at Reid intently, anxious to know the answer that the young man might provide. Anxious to know why he did it. The shimmer of tears, laying on the lower lid, unmoving, was partially hidden in his bent position, causing the genius to heave a deep breath in relief.

"I..." he started, looking down at the floor. Why did he do it? He could remember his reasons for it, seconds before he did it. He remembered feeling useless, hopeless, the finality of Morgan's tiresome sigh still ringing in his ear. He remembered feeling like he might as well have, preferring a shortened life to one spent in hospitals, popping pills like oxygen. Preferring no life to one similar to the life his mother lived, the life he tried so hard to avoid.

But was that why? Deciding to overdose wasn't an impulsive action, even if he changed his mind half way through. Reaching that point- that point where you're sitting on the edge of the cliff, teetering over ever so slowly, halfheartedly holding on to a support system- took time. It happened, in a series of events, in a gradual downfall.

So what exactly did it?

What finally tipped him over, dislodged his hand of the feeble rope that held him just on the balance at that edge?

"Take your time, Dr. Reid," the doctor prompted, a lace of impatience waning his voice.

But Reid made no note of it, scrambling frantically in his head to figure out why. Because he was heading down a path oddly reminiscent of his mother? Because he was making no move to get better, too weak to relive the week long enough to overcome it? Because he knew that even if he did, he wouldn't be doing it for himself but so that his team could be happy again, knowing they had the real Spencer back in their family once more?

Or was it because there was no guarantee that this was the end? That at any moment, during any case, he would be pushed back once more into the hands of the UnSub? That he would have to choose between living a secured life, in the center of his team and away from harm, or chance having the whole cycle repeat itself?

A dull throb began to pulse in the forefront of his head, and he scrunched his eyes, trying to see past the starting blur of a forming headache. For once, it hurt to think. So, sighing, he came up with the only true, decisive answer he could summon.

"I don't know."

Dr. Hart looked up at him, an eyebrow raised and his eyes questioning as though he were challenging him, accusing him of lying. But Reid didn't change his mind, turning his gaze down to the floor as he kicked his feet out slowly.

"Well, what were you thinking then? When you did it?"

The lights seemed to flash in his head and he blinked, trying to clear his vision and disentangle himself from his mind. But the flashing continued, and he glanced wearily at the swaying restraints, the limp leather of the wrist binding hitting against his ankle. He couldn't think anymore, not with the worn yet tough material brushing against him. All he could do was stare at them, watching in horror as the leather transformed into metal, tarnished with blood. And then the cuffs were around him, clasped around his ankles and his wrists.

His breathing sped up, his heart rate accelerated. He could feel each pulse of his heart as it reverberated in his body, each vein twitching. The sound of his blood echoed in his ear, deafening as he shirked back against it, raising a hand to his head.

He could vaguely hear the shout of the doctor, of Morgan, of nurses from the outside as he felt his head go heavy, his body snapping back onto the mattress with the exhausting weight it suddenly seemed to gain. He could barely make out the nebulous shadows that rose above him to be Morgan and Dr. Hart, the glaring light creating a halo behind them. But with one long blink of an eye, the shapes changed and instead he saw Varney and Andrew leering down at him.

"No," he managed to moan out, grasping out wildly as he tried to bring himself back to the hospital room, tried to force the shapes to return to Morgan and Hart. But they wouldn't.

"Please," he begged, closing his eyes as though it might make them go away.

As though it might make everything go away.

He jerked up from the mattress when he felt hands grasp his shoulders. But the more he tried to sit himself up, the more persistent and forceful the hands become. The rush of voices passed by, but his hearing was so muffled by the crude noise of blood against veins that he couldn't hear it. And he continued to struggle, becoming more frantic as he realized that he was outnumbered, too many hands forcing him to lay down.

"Stop! Please!" he called out, not sure if it was to the doctor's or to the memory of Varney and Andrew he was directing that demand to. He clawed out, flailing his hands wildly. But when someone grabbed onto his wrists, he screamed out, fighting back with gusto as he lurched forward and kicked out, throwing his body around even when he felt the leather strap close around his slim wrist.

"NO!" he yelled, freezing only in his violent flopping when he heard a POP! It took only seconds before he felt the growing pain in his shoulder and the tightening of the knots in his stomach. Twisting his body, he heaved as he vomited for the second time that evening, his arm quivering with the residual shock of the new injury.

He stilled, his throat burning with each intake of air when he felt the pinch of a needle in his arm. As the heavy sedative was pushed into his body, he slumped back against the mattress, welcoming the darkness.

xXx

Author's Note: Don't kill me! So, I rewrote this chapter about...five or so times, through different perspectives and with different events, eventually deciding that, for the way I wanted this story to end, this was the best option.

So even though a lot of you may hate me for this, I promise you it is a happy ending! Bear with me for the next few chapters!

Longest chapter yet, twenty-seven pages in total. It's a beast!

Sorry for the long update- a pesky thing called life insists on getting in the way no matter how much I try to block it out. Anyway, this chapter may seem confusing for someone who has never had any experience with someone who is suicidal, so here's a quick explanation: The will to live- the self-preservation mechanism- is a primitive thing, found active in the oldest part of the brain, and will often be present even when someone truly believes they want to die, causing them to switch between wanting to live and wanting to die. It's not common for someone to make an attempt and then regret it, or for them to try a halfhearted attempt. Typically, doctor's will see anything that isn't a quick and definitive means to suicide as a subconscious call for help for this reason.

I really depressed myself...

Anyway, sorry, again! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter!