The Thoughts of the Lost Mindreaders: Rambling Criminal Minds One Shots

Missing Them Pt. 4

Who can I go to? Who do I know won't be mad at me? Of course they'd all be mad at me, but I need someone to talk to that I can get an understandable smoke signal to.

I dialed the number and couldn't stop my nerves from turning my thoughts into a sped-through mess "Hey, uh Garcia? I'm really really sorry for calling this late it's just uh, I can't not talk to someone right now and-"

"Woah, slow down Boy Genius. Just breathe a moment there," she answered, concern bleeding from her tone.

"I- sorry. I'm really sorry. I just... I need to- can I come to your house tonight?" I managed to get out.

"Of course, just could you do two favors for me?"

"Anything, Garcia."

"One, don't judge my Dino pjs. They're 100% not worth changing out of just because the lovely Dr. Reid is coming for a visit."

My panicked breaths were helped with laughter as I replied, "Got it. And the second?"

"Stay on the phone until you get here?" She asked sweetly.

"I can do that," I said, stepping into a rarely-touched car before they can kick in.

"Spencer wait, can you drive right now? Are you..."

I know a few ways that question could go and the answer is yes to too many of them.

"I... Garcia, I probably shouldn't," I respond, ashamed.

"I'll come to your apartment, Reid. It's like six minutes away," she reassured.

"Okay."

"But, you're still not allowed to get off the phone Mr."

"Understood."

"Alright, now what has got you distraught on this late night, Doctor?"

"I... so, I've been getting these really bad headaches, and well-"

"Don't worry, I'll take care of you, but continue please."

"I just..." I stammered, silently begging for a way out of this before quietly resuming, "I took more ibuprofen than the bottle said I should take, and it's... I had four years, Garcia and I used it on something so stupid."

"Oh, Spencer... it's okay. Everything's going to be fine, and actually, I'd much rather you use on something stupid."

"Garcia, I've never researched what happens when you get high on ibuprofen. I'm completely blind here, I don't know what I'm dealing with and there's no way I'm looking at a screen. My head is pounding-"

"Reid."

"What?"

"Reid, you're okay. I'm like more than halfway there. Have you eaten anything?"

"I... no."

"Then you'll probably feel a little sick, but it was only two extra. I'm sure everything will be okay."

It's only two extra, Spencer. You're fine. Stop freaking out about it. Congrats on having a panic attack over nothing, you-

"Reid?"

"Yeah, sorry I- yeah, I'll be fine."

"I'm pulling into the parking garage now. See you in a second, 187."

"Okay."

You're a mess, Spencer. Your house is disgusting. How can you let her see it like this?

I can't bring myself to move, and soon I hear a knock on my door. I suck in a breath of courage and stumble to the door.

"Hey, Genius," she greets as quiet as she can as I shrink away from the light in the hallway.

She surveyed my living room whose previously pristine surfaces now held bits of clutter. My mind tells me she thinks I'm lazy, and I wouldn't disagree.

"How are you feeling?" She asked as she followed me to the couch.

"Not fully sober," I reply, shame creeping through my voice.

"Anything I can do to make you less down about it?"

"I should feel down about it. I really messed up, Garcia."

"But you can start counting the days again tomorrow. This can be one little slip up in years of sobriety."

My gaze shifts to the ground, and I say nothing.

"So, do you want to talk about what's going on in the mind of Spencer Reid or do you just want to get your mind off all that sad stuff?"

"I... I'd rather not talk about it."

"Got it, then do you want to talk about something else?"

"Sure," I want to ramble for hours about trivia and statistics and a little bit of magic tricks, but after a while, the room starts to swim and with it, my stomach.

"You feeling okay?" She asks as my sentence trails off.

"I'm just going to go to the bathroom real quick."

My legs stumble their way to the bathroom as I glide my fingers along a wall for support.

I crouch over the bowl, trying in vain to stop my head spinning. I deserve this. I know I do, but it... it's just so unsanitary it makes my skin crawl.

"You okay?" Garcia repeats, laying a hand on the doorframe.

"I'm fine. I'm okay," I tell myself more than her.

I press my thumb's knuckles into the inner corner of my eyes (the caruncle to be precise) to try to stop the vicious pounding or the acid climbing up my throat. Garcia circles to my side and squats beside me, placing a gentle hand on my back.

I heave into the bowl, and my shoulders tense and jitter. The nausea mostly disperses, calming to a subtle light-headedness which I am endlessly grateful for. My limbs feel heavy, but I force them to display some sort of dexterity.

I wander back to the couch in something near a daze, Garcia watching carefully with a hand on my shoulder.

I deserve it. I deserve all of this. I'm the one who made me take those pills, not JJ, not Emily, not even Hankel. I am weak.

"Get some rest, 187."

I'm very sorry, Garcia, but I can't do that for you. Dreaming is nearly worse than waking which is more than saying something. My eyes can handle light, but the only light I am offered is either synthetic and fluorescent or that of a light bulb directly attached to the ceiling.

I dream about a thousand cold cases in towns I don't know in offices that have stopped feeling real to me, or I dream about myself becoming a cold case, forever bathed in light surrounded by moths and nothing else and forever subjected to rushes of pounding adrenaline and agony surging through my feet.

I don't get any sleep that night just like those before it. I pretend to for Garcia's sake, but my head is still more pain than flesh and bone. I'm sorry, Garcia.