Thank you all so much for the reviews on the last chapter! I am glad you enjoyed the proposal...

We're jumping back in with Dr. Reid for this one. It was written to the lovely "Any Other Name" by Thomas Newman - a hauntingly beautiful composition, if I do say so myself.

Happy reading =)

"The biggest mistake is believing there is one right way to listen, to talk, to have a conversation…" – Deborah Tannen

My gaze is fixed on the ground at my feet, my mind frozen and perhaps unwilling to allow my eyes to drift upward. It's been months since I'd last been here. And that last time was the only time I had been here. Time had been cruel, creeping past at an agonizingly slow speed to my mind, and yet the realization that all those months had passed prompted a sickening sensation in my stomach. Had it really been that long?

Life had kept going – and truthfully, I hadn't expected it to stop – but somehow it feels as though it was only yesterday that everything had shifted out of focus. And that's what it was like – like I couldn't concentrate on anything because it wasn't clear. Admittedly my progressively worse headaches and fear of suffering a schizophrenic break might be a bit of a factor, but ultimately it came down to the fact that life had shifted in a way that I couldn't quite compensate for. No matter how hard I tried to rationalize it, or explain it, it didn't make any sense.

But then death never does. Or at least, that's what my mother tells me. I'd gone to visit her not long after she died, maybe out of some sort of childish need for comfort from my mother, or maybe because I wanted to spend time with someone who didn't remind me so painfully of her. Everyone I knew was so intertwined with my memories of Emily that seeing them just made it so hard. I see Morgan and remember their constant teasing in the bullpen. I see JJ and recall the girl talk Morgan and I could never understand. I see Garcia and remember all of her nicknames for Emily, and how she would just shake her head at every new one thrown her way.

But my mother had no ties to Emily. She was just my mother. And she'd looked at me with those eyes that knew everything without me having to say a word, and had wrapped me up in her arms, giving me a tiny moment of comfort and peace. But all too soon that moment had ended, and the crashing realization of what I'd lost had settled back in, and I felt my heart – metaphorically speaking, of course – become that little bit heavier again.

Slowly and maybe a little bit grudgingly I lift my gaze. I feel a wave of emotion when my eyes scan over the words etched into stone. Somehow, even after all these months, it still hurts. I'd gained a new understanding of what the family of the victims we see every day feel. I'd always been a little detached and unemotional when it came to seeing them. They were just people who could offer us pieces of the puzzle that we had to somehow put together. But now…now I know how they're feeling. Now I know how hard it is to focus, let alone think about details. They are stronger than I ever realized. They have a strength I can't fathom.

And that's what it comes down to. Weakness. We see and deal with death every single day, and yet somehow I can't shake this one, can't accept that she's gone. The rational part of my brain reminds me that it's different because I knew her. I'd spent time with her. Learned about her quirks, and played chess with her. Leaned on her for support in the face of all this darkness and evil that we see and try to fight against. But no matter how many times, and how many ways my mind tries to convince me of that, I can't help but feel overwhelmingly weak.

Everyone else seems to have found some way to move on, or at least cope effectively. Hotch has work, even if it seems like he's just avoiding her death altogether. JJ has her family, and her efforts to help all of us. That's always been her though – the one who empathizes and fills everyone's mothering quota, whether they want it or not. Morgan vowed to find Doyle, and I have little doubt he'll succeed, especially considering all his free time is spent poring over files and little scraps of intel. Rossi, being that generation older than most of us, has lived through a lot more loss, and maybe is able to try and distance himself from it that much easier. Although I'm not sure practice ever makes perfect in these kinds of matters. Ashley transferred not long after it all happened…but then again she hadn't known Emily like all of us. Garcia is still having a hard time, but she at least had mustered up the courage long ago to visit, and I know she continues to visit weekly.

But me? It's taken months for me to even be able to set foot in this place. I hadn't been able to face it. The number of times that I'd driven myself here, and then found my feet rooted to the ground at the entrance… Every time I'm overwhelmed by how unfair it is that she's gone, and how it's just too much to deal with. Sometimes those times are a little too much to deal with, and I have to go to JJ's, lest I do something foolish and ill-advised.

I let out a shaky breath and fidget a little, my emotions and nerves leaking out the cracks of my unstable defenses. I curse my memory for remembering all the little things I didn't notice at the time, and should have put together. Maybe if I'd noticed, I wouldn't be standing here right now. But those thoughts are fleeting – I know there was little I could have done to stop this outcome, my mind has at least convinced me of that. No, what I'm feeling is more like a deeply-seeded despair.

I've studied psychology, and I know what it says about me. I'm stuck in the depression stage of grief, unable to deal with the loss. And I think that maybe it's not so far off… Some days I just feel overcome with emotion, and it's those days that I find myself crying on JJ's shoulder. But other days, it's questions that overwhelm me, and instead of crying I find my brain trying desperately to find answers. Did she feel pain? Was she scared of dying? What did she see in those last moments? Was she alone? Did she know we loved her?

I'd turned to books to find answers. I needed to understand. But the problem with these questions is that no book can answer them. Psychological and physiological studies abound, but no one can succinctly and sufficiently answer the question of what happens upon someone's death.

Philosophers, infuriatingly but unsurprisingly, are at odds on the issue. Just as they continually argue as to what constitutes being alive, they too argue about what constitutes death. Is it the ceasing of vital processes? Is it a loss of life? It is the entire process of dying, or merely the moment that process is complete?

When you consider the possibility of an after-life, things get even more complex. And the concept of souls and their role in life and death? The subject of many a thesis, and we're no closer to having an answer. There is no way to quantify it, to prove their existence, let alone explore their role.

I find, frustratingly so, that despite hours' worth of thought and reading and researching, I am no closer to an answer than when I started. Even with my own experience of temporary death (an intriguing topic all its own), I find I cannot even begin to explain or understand it.

And yet, I cannot just resign myself to the fact that I know so little about what she experienced. Surely there must be some answers. I try to hold onto this hope. Maybe if I get some answers, I can find some semblance of peace. Maybe if I find some sort of response to all of this, I can get some closure, and accept that she's gone.

And that's why I'm here, finally standing at her grave after all these months. Garcia had encouraged me to go, insisting that "talking helps" and that I'd feel better after a little chat. But I'd had the hardest time wrapping my head around the idea that talking to a grave would help me cope with my grief. I'd scoured peer-reviewed journals, but hadn't been able to find any substantive evidence that talking to a deceased friend or loved one helps. And yet anecdotally, it's practically a miracle cure.

But talk-therapy has been shown to be effective…so maybe a conversation here and there might, in fact, help. Although, technically talking with a grave isn't actually talk therapy…but I know enough to know that internalizing doesn't help, and talking seems to have worked for a large number of people, so maybe giving it a try is worth it.

But this opens a whole other problem. What do you say to a dead person who may or may not hear your words? Is it fair for you to dump your emotions on them? Do they want to hear about how you're coping? Or do they just want to hear about your life? Or do they want to hear anything at all?

I let out another shaky breath as I consider these questions. I know what Emily would want to hear. She, more than anything, would want to make sure I was okay. She'd always had a knack for checking in with me at the moments when I needed her to. And she just listened. She didn't judge, or baby me, or try to offer meaningless words of comfort. No, she would smile at me sadly, letting me know she'd heard what I'd said, and then offer up a game of chess.

"Hey," I manage to croak out. "I…I don't know how to do this, so bear with me, okay? I know, I know," I say with the tiniest of smiles, "Something the all-knowing Dr. Reid doesn't know about. Trust me, I tried to research this, but I came up empty."

"There's a first for everything," I imagine she'd quip, with that amused smirk she so often wore.

I fall silent, the small bit of humour leaving me, and the crushing feeling returning. "I miss you," I say softly, my gaze drifting to the sky.

"I miss you too, handsome. How are things?"

"Things are different without you in the bullpen. We haven't moved your stuff, not that Garcia would let us if we tried. I don't know how long Facilities is going to let us keep it that way though…you know how valuable free desks are these days."

"Tell me about it. Getting mine in the first place was like prying candy out of a five-year old's hands."

I feel a bit ridiculous talking to no one, especially with the knowledge that it's unlikely she can hear me, and yet it's oddly comforting. Even if it's only what I imagine her responses would be, it still almost feels like she's here with me.

"Garcia dragged me out to the zoo with Henry."

"Yeah? Bet Henry loved that."

"My encyclopedic knowledge made me quite popular with Henry and the other kids around us. We ended up having a rather large group following up around because I could answer all of the questions the kids had."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"Henry seemed to have a good time, and Garcia was happy to spend a bit of time with JJ. Even now that she's back with us, they don't get to spend a ton of time together, so it was good all around."

"She's back with the team?"

"I think she just knew we needed her."

"Guess she's my replacement then."

"I guess technically she's your replacement since she's a full profiler now, and she doesn't do many of the media liaison duties anymore, but…it doesn't feel like she's replaced you. No one can replace you."

There's a pause in our "conversation" as I close my eyes and exhale heavily. This is ridiculous. I'm talking to no one, and imagining my dead friend having a conversation with me. This doesn't make any sense.

"Not everything's explained by science you know."

I blink at her words. Was that the case? The rational part of my brain understands that's how faith works. It sits in that gap between the explained and the as yet unexplainable.

"How are you doing?"

"I miss you, Emily. So much. It's not fair that you're gone."

"I know, Reid, but some things are just out of our control."

"I can't make any sense of it. Why do we bother hunting down these unsubs if we can't even keep our own family safe?"

"You know why."

"It isn't fair. Why did we have to lose you?"

"You didn't lose me, Reid. This wasn't your fight."

"We would've helped you, you know. You're family to us. We lost a member of our family that night."

"And I'm so sorry for that."

"I think about that night a lot."

"You shouldn't. It doesn't do well to dwell on the past."

"I think about what it was like for you, and what you went through for Declan. What you went through for us. I know you ran to protect us. Don't you know we would've crossed through fire for you?"

"I never wanted you to have to, and I never would have asked that of you."

I let out yet another shaky breath. I can feel the weight lifting from my chest with every word. "I just…I miss you, and I wish you were here."

"Me too, handsome. Me too."

I feel a heavy sigh escape my lips. This was harder than I ever could have imagined.

I can hear her words so clearly, her voice gentle. "Go home, Reid."

"I don't want to leave you," I whisper after a moment, ignoring the part of my brain that reminds me how foolish this conversation is.

"That's sweet, it really is, but you can't keep holding on to this. You have to move on."

I stare at the words etched in the stone once more, finding myself unable to form any words of my own.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

"Harry Potter?" I say, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Really?"

"Don't give me that – Dumbledore had some wise words over the years."

"And some ill-advised guidance, not to mention-"

"Okay, okay. Just…go live your life, Reid. Play chess, visit the park, go to work, spend time with Henry... Don't let my death hold you back. Please."

She's right. I need to live again. Yes, she was my friend. Yes, she meant a great deal to me. But I wasn't honouring her by wallowing. No, I needed to live again. And I think that maybe today was the first real step toward that.

I nod in agreement and offer a quiet, "Okay" before turning and heading toward the exit.

So...did I hit you in the feels with this one? How'd you enjoy the premise of the "conversation"? I struggled for a long about whether Reid would say anything at all, but couldn't pass up the chance to write this one. Let me know, I love getting a chance to see what you all think!