The Ultimate Solution
Part 1:
Disclaimer: I do not in any way own the characters I mention in this story. All rights go to CBS and Mark Gordon Company
“There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of Hell.” ― Edgar Allan Poe
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reid was tired, so, so very tired.
Every day he looked at the horrendous parts of humanity; and everyday he went home to the silence of his apartment, the pictures and the words of the newest sadist circling in his head. That was the only downside to an eidetic memory, he could never forget the grotesque mutilated bodies that haunted every agent.
‘Do it’.
The two words echo around in the young agent’s head, bouncing around in the seemingly thick skull, searching for reasoning and meaning behind them. He knew the meaning behind them; he had told himself that very same thing three hours earlier. But the one thing he still couldn’t understand was the reason.
He had come to terms with his schizophrenia months earlier so it was no surprise when the voices began to talk to him at his moment of dejection.
The voices in his head wanted him to suffer, to make him feel the pain that he in turn had inflicted upon them through medications and therapy. So why were they telling him to kill his self? To commit suicide was a way out from the pain, a solace in the dark and evil of reality and life.
It was the ultimate solution.
The next few words spoken by a voice - Charlie as he liked to be called - rang out so clear he almost wanted to look up from the blood caked floor to see if there was a body that went with the voice that told him the words of horror. ‘You are nothing. No one would even care if you died.’
Images flashed through the brunette’s mind. A pale, smiling dark haired beauty whose face had fallen the
moment the three words were uttered; the petite blonde wearing a smile and now looking with an expression that just projected horror and dismay. The effervescent tech analyst, whose innocence and undying love for a person who has cry worthy past shinning through as she cried over a dead body; tears making the expertly applied mascara run dark rivers down the three young women’s cheeks. The two oldest agents silently grieving, attempting to keep the dysfunctional family together. And the most disturbing image, a dark skinned agent, eyes wide in disbelief and despair.
…would they care? Would they cry or was it just an over exaggerated image? Would they even blink?
‘Just do it already. You know it won’t matter. It will probably be weeks before anyone finds you anyway.’ It kills him. Each time the voices speak a small part of him dies. The most terrifying part was the truth within the spoken obscenities.
“Why?” The words come out as a sob and he shuts his eyes as the word hits the walls and the tile of the kitchen floor. He came in there to get a knife to cut and escape.
Cutting…
He didn’t really understand why everyone made such a big deal out of it. He didn’t cut to deep, just enough to bleed a good bit and have a release. He let herself hope that if he cut himself that maybe, just maybe, the voices would go away and he would have a moment of peace and could possibly even get sleep.
Sleep…
The thought of shutting his brain down and not having to deal with life even if it was just for a few hours was the only thing keeping the young man on his feet. Insomnia was a bitch. Maybe if he just tired himself out more…
He knew it wouldn’t work, but he couldn’t help but wonder.
‘Because I’m sick of you. You’re just a screw up and a disappointment. I can go and be with someone else; someone who doesn’t fuck up at every chance to prove themselves.’
More tears dripped down the pale face of the man as he stood to clean himself up. Reaching under the sink to grab the bleach and a rag he hissed in pain. Dumping half of the liquid contained in the bottle on the floor, he began to scrub, more tears trailing down as some of the bleach reached the uncovered cuts.
He was a failure, he knew that. He lied to his friends, institutionalized the only family he had, destroyed his life, drug down the people around him with his depression, let the people die from his lack of ability to profile and catch the killer before they chose another victim, and wrote on his bathroom and bedroom walls in his own blood because the voices told him to. He was pathetic. He wouldn’t even stand up to the damn imaginative voices in his head. Or at least he was told they were part of his imagination; could have fooled him.
He looked up from the floor, eyes blurring with the salt water that was his tears. He just needed to dry up the floor and then throw away the towel that became soaked with his own blood so no one else would have to do it.
He stood up to do that, running through the multiple ways to die. Which would be less painful, which would be the easiest to clean up, which would be the fastest…
Deciding on the fastest, he went on about cleaning up the mess he made.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the third floor of the apartment building Spencer wondered his way around his living space which consisted of several rooms. His bedroom was cleaned first, dusting all the long forgotten awards from years of competitive chess, and schooling. Make sure to make the bed, folding the corners neatly, he set the pillows in place. The will and letters were placed very gently on the desk; he knew Derek would find them when he came to get him in the morning or when he was cleaning out his apartment.
He moved to the next room, his bathroom. Inspecting every surface for dirt and mold and finding none he checked the medicine cabinet to make sure all of the medicines were in their right places. Alphabetical order…just how his OCD mind wanted it.
Moving back into his bedroom he reached under his bed for the strong box. Pulling out the key from his pocket he unlocked it and very carefully lifted the life taking object out, making sure there was at least one in the chamber. It was a revolver, didn’t leave any shell casings for someone to have to pick up later. Stuffing it in the waistband of his pants he relocked it and set the key on top of papers.
Walking was painful, every muscle on fire, as he steeped very carefully into his small kitchen, looking around to check for misplaced things. Investigating the oven first he deemed it clean enough, and then moved to the fridge. He threw out all of the food that would go stale, and pour out all the drinks. Checking all small appliances next, he deemed them clean enough as well to move to the next room.
Against the wall sat a large, black bookshelf, filled with hundreds of books. Papers were strode everywhere from paperwork at work and his taxes. His subconscious him milling around, straightening things as he went. He put everything up carefully, mindful of the fact that someone would have to come and clean out his apartment.
Casting a final glance around the room he turned to head down the stairs and outside.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The metal was cold and unforgiving as it pressed into the temple of the tear streaked brunette, letting him relish in the face that this death would be instantaneous and painless. More pain was the last thing he needed.
“Pain just makes things worse…” he muttered, eyes opening to slits just to see the green of the grass. He almost laughed at the truth within the statement. Pain makes everything worse…
It was moments like these, where everything was painstakingly quiet, that his mind truly scared him. He could recall everything with the upmost clarity; he could solve the most elaborate and advanced equations, whether they be theoretical or mathematical. Some of the world’s most sought after answers where illuminated to him in instances like this. It was almost alarming.
He had come out to the park where he usually frequented to clear his head; the blood from his body would just be soaked into the soil to fertilize future plants that would cover the ground. The sun was set low in the sky, shadows cast long across the grass. A dog barked in the distance and he drew comfort from the animal. People always did say that animals had calming effects…
The voices were silent as he pressed harder, a sharp pain jarring through his head at the pressure on his temple. Three deep breathes were drawn as a single, lone finger came to the butt of the gun. The click of it being cocked echoed over the small clearing. The lone finger returned to the trigger, and an echo of gunshot shattered through the silence.
Dr. Spencer Reid, holder of three PhD’s and two BA’s, certified genius of a 187 I.Q., agent of the FBI, was dead.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets through many a dark night.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part 2:
“As anyone who has been close to someone that has committed suicide knows, there is no other pain like that felt after the incident” - Peter Greene
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Word hurt, physically hurt. That is the very first thing Hotch learns as the phone falls out of his hand, thumping on to the desk with a sharp bang that echoed through the room. A hand came up to clutch the middle of his ribs, as if trying to crack them open enough to breath. His chest was constricting painfully, a sob caught in his throat, a single word on his lips.
Reid.
It wasn’t a secret that Reid had been distant. They had all noticed it - they were profilers after all - but they let it go, he would act oblivious when it was brought up, so they left it alone, leaving it to the younger man to sort out his problems himself.
‘Reid…we didn’t want this to be your solution…’
Very softly Hotch picked up the phone, placing it back into its place. His head falls into his hands and the sobs come echoing around the room.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They all sat around the round table, most very wary due to the tear streaked face of their boss.
The words came tumbling out, each face slowly breaking into horror struck look. Tears making rivers, sounds of disbelief reverberating, and the distinct noises of someone slamming their fist into a wall.
“He…why didn’t he talk to one of us? We could have helped!” The sentence came from Morgan’s direction.
It was Prentiss who answered - monotone. “He didn’t want to be a burden.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Everyone was crying - manliness be damned. Garcia was holding her chest, trying to keep herself together. Her color was gone, black clothes reflecting the void that Reid left when he departed. She refused to think of him as dead, just his soul simply departing his body.
Words flew by as each member of the team spoke, sharing heartwarming moments they each had with their genius. When it was her turn she shared the fun times they had in her office during the time he got shot in the leg, and the time he had gotten so smashed at one of the office Christmas parties. She had to stop when the tears became to much. The priest was speaking but no one was listening. They were trapped in their own personal hell.
“He shall forever be remembered. May god have mercy on his soul and let him into the eternal bliss of heaven…”
‘Reid didn’t believe in god. He didn’t believe in the afterlife.’ The thought strikes Garcia so suddenly she almost flinches. ‘It must be awful to never have faith in something of any kind.’
She watches in silence as her teammate - more like a brother than anything else - was lowered into the ground, the stark black of the coffin reflecting the image of the solemn team members.
He was truly gone.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For a brief moment Derek Morgan pretended it wasn’t real. Hoped it wasn’t real, but as the chilled hand reached out to trace the black letters within the marble stone the hope shattered.
Tears streamed down his face as he thought of the young agent lying beneath his feet. Memories of all the times they had smiled and laughed together, breaking away from the horrors of their job. The times he has seen the young man blush and ramble about some obscure topic that no one really knew anything about but didn’t want to interrupt him for fear of being rude.
For an innocent young genius who had one of the most respected jobs Reid had known way to many drinking games. Having called Morgan over several time to help nurse his hangover. But having Reid make a fool of himself on the dance floor had been more than worth it.
There were moments - wonderful moments - where Morgan would forget. Times in the office where he would get coffee and get one just the way Reid liked it. Morning where he would swing by Reid apartment expecting to see him standing outside waiting for Morgan to come pick him up. Instances where he would see a new sweater vest that would look great on the dead agent and grab it before he realized what he was doing. But it wouldn’t last. Slowly he would come to accept his death, and hopefully move on.
Casting a glance at the marble the words fidelity, bravery, integrity stood out and for a moment Derek was angry. Those words were not Spencer; they were just a part of Spencer. A part of Spencer that no one would ever be able to see again.
The shrill ring of his phone seemed to obscene in the quiet clearing. Looking down Derek saw that it was Hotch and answered reluctantly.
Life went on. It was cold and harsh but true never the less. With a heavy heart Derek Morgan left the cemetery.
“The life of the dead is placed in the heart of the living.” - Cicero
A/N: I always imagined Reid to be a heavy drinker. Obviously he is a light weight but I always thought of him as intoxicated a lot. The reasoning behind this is because normally people with above average intelligence tend to drink a lot more to feel more comfortable in their own skin. To those of you who disagree with me, sorry, but it’s just the way I see it. Hope you guys enjoyed the story.
Disclaimer: I do not in any way own the characters I mention in this story. All rights go to CBS and Mark Gordon Company
“There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of Hell.” ― Edgar Allan Poe
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reid was tired, so, so very tired.
Every day he looked at the horrendous parts of humanity; and everyday he went home to the silence of his apartment, the pictures and the words of the newest sadist circling in his head. That was the only downside to an eidetic memory, he could never forget the grotesque mutilated bodies that haunted every agent.
‘Do it’.
The two words echo around in the young agent’s head, bouncing around in the seemingly thick skull, searching for reasoning and meaning behind them. He knew the meaning behind them; he had told himself that very same thing three hours earlier. But the one thing he still couldn’t understand was the reason.
He had come to terms with his schizophrenia months earlier so it was no surprise when the voices began to talk to him at his moment of dejection.
The voices in his head wanted him to suffer, to make him feel the pain that he in turn had inflicted upon them through medications and therapy. So why were they telling him to kill his self? To commit suicide was a way out from the pain, a solace in the dark and evil of reality and life.
It was the ultimate solution.
The next few words spoken by a voice - Charlie as he liked to be called - rang out so clear he almost wanted to look up from the blood caked floor to see if there was a body that went with the voice that told him the words of horror. ‘You are nothing. No one would even care if you died.’
Images flashed through the brunette’s mind. A pale, smiling dark haired beauty whose face had fallen the
moment the three words were uttered; the petite blonde wearing a smile and now looking with an expression that just projected horror and dismay. The effervescent tech analyst, whose innocence and undying love for a person who has cry worthy past shinning through as she cried over a dead body; tears making the expertly applied mascara run dark rivers down the three young women’s cheeks. The two oldest agents silently grieving, attempting to keep the dysfunctional family together. And the most disturbing image, a dark skinned agent, eyes wide in disbelief and despair.
…would they care? Would they cry or was it just an over exaggerated image? Would they even blink?
‘Just do it already. You know it won’t matter. It will probably be weeks before anyone finds you anyway.’ It kills him. Each time the voices speak a small part of him dies. The most terrifying part was the truth within the spoken obscenities.
“Why?” The words come out as a sob and he shuts his eyes as the word hits the walls and the tile of the kitchen floor. He came in there to get a knife to cut and escape.
Cutting…
He didn’t really understand why everyone made such a big deal out of it. He didn’t cut to deep, just enough to bleed a good bit and have a release. He let herself hope that if he cut himself that maybe, just maybe, the voices would go away and he would have a moment of peace and could possibly even get sleep.
Sleep…
The thought of shutting his brain down and not having to deal with life even if it was just for a few hours was the only thing keeping the young man on his feet. Insomnia was a bitch. Maybe if he just tired himself out more…
He knew it wouldn’t work, but he couldn’t help but wonder.
‘Because I’m sick of you. You’re just a screw up and a disappointment. I can go and be with someone else; someone who doesn’t fuck up at every chance to prove themselves.’
More tears dripped down the pale face of the man as he stood to clean himself up. Reaching under the sink to grab the bleach and a rag he hissed in pain. Dumping half of the liquid contained in the bottle on the floor, he began to scrub, more tears trailing down as some of the bleach reached the uncovered cuts.
He was a failure, he knew that. He lied to his friends, institutionalized the only family he had, destroyed his life, drug down the people around him with his depression, let the people die from his lack of ability to profile and catch the killer before they chose another victim, and wrote on his bathroom and bedroom walls in his own blood because the voices told him to. He was pathetic. He wouldn’t even stand up to the damn imaginative voices in his head. Or at least he was told they were part of his imagination; could have fooled him.
He looked up from the floor, eyes blurring with the salt water that was his tears. He just needed to dry up the floor and then throw away the towel that became soaked with his own blood so no one else would have to do it.
He stood up to do that, running through the multiple ways to die. Which would be less painful, which would be the easiest to clean up, which would be the fastest…
Deciding on the fastest, he went on about cleaning up the mess he made.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the third floor of the apartment building Spencer wondered his way around his living space which consisted of several rooms. His bedroom was cleaned first, dusting all the long forgotten awards from years of competitive chess, and schooling. Make sure to make the bed, folding the corners neatly, he set the pillows in place. The will and letters were placed very gently on the desk; he knew Derek would find them when he came to get him in the morning or when he was cleaning out his apartment.
He moved to the next room, his bathroom. Inspecting every surface for dirt and mold and finding none he checked the medicine cabinet to make sure all of the medicines were in their right places. Alphabetical order…just how his OCD mind wanted it.
Moving back into his bedroom he reached under his bed for the strong box. Pulling out the key from his pocket he unlocked it and very carefully lifted the life taking object out, making sure there was at least one in the chamber. It was a revolver, didn’t leave any shell casings for someone to have to pick up later. Stuffing it in the waistband of his pants he relocked it and set the key on top of papers.
Walking was painful, every muscle on fire, as he steeped very carefully into his small kitchen, looking around to check for misplaced things. Investigating the oven first he deemed it clean enough, and then moved to the fridge. He threw out all of the food that would go stale, and pour out all the drinks. Checking all small appliances next, he deemed them clean enough as well to move to the next room.
Against the wall sat a large, black bookshelf, filled with hundreds of books. Papers were strode everywhere from paperwork at work and his taxes. His subconscious him milling around, straightening things as he went. He put everything up carefully, mindful of the fact that someone would have to come and clean out his apartment.
Casting a final glance around the room he turned to head down the stairs and outside.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The metal was cold and unforgiving as it pressed into the temple of the tear streaked brunette, letting him relish in the face that this death would be instantaneous and painless. More pain was the last thing he needed.
“Pain just makes things worse…” he muttered, eyes opening to slits just to see the green of the grass. He almost laughed at the truth within the statement. Pain makes everything worse…
It was moments like these, where everything was painstakingly quiet, that his mind truly scared him. He could recall everything with the upmost clarity; he could solve the most elaborate and advanced equations, whether they be theoretical or mathematical. Some of the world’s most sought after answers where illuminated to him in instances like this. It was almost alarming.
He had come out to the park where he usually frequented to clear his head; the blood from his body would just be soaked into the soil to fertilize future plants that would cover the ground. The sun was set low in the sky, shadows cast long across the grass. A dog barked in the distance and he drew comfort from the animal. People always did say that animals had calming effects…
The voices were silent as he pressed harder, a sharp pain jarring through his head at the pressure on his temple. Three deep breathes were drawn as a single, lone finger came to the butt of the gun. The click of it being cocked echoed over the small clearing. The lone finger returned to the trigger, and an echo of gunshot shattered through the silence.
Dr. Spencer Reid, holder of three PhD’s and two BA’s, certified genius of a 187 I.Q., agent of the FBI, was dead.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets through many a dark night.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part 2:
“As anyone who has been close to someone that has committed suicide knows, there is no other pain like that felt after the incident” - Peter Greene
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Word hurt, physically hurt. That is the very first thing Hotch learns as the phone falls out of his hand, thumping on to the desk with a sharp bang that echoed through the room. A hand came up to clutch the middle of his ribs, as if trying to crack them open enough to breath. His chest was constricting painfully, a sob caught in his throat, a single word on his lips.
Reid.
It wasn’t a secret that Reid had been distant. They had all noticed it - they were profilers after all - but they let it go, he would act oblivious when it was brought up, so they left it alone, leaving it to the younger man to sort out his problems himself.
‘Reid…we didn’t want this to be your solution…’
Very softly Hotch picked up the phone, placing it back into its place. His head falls into his hands and the sobs come echoing around the room.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They all sat around the round table, most very wary due to the tear streaked face of their boss.
The words came tumbling out, each face slowly breaking into horror struck look. Tears making rivers, sounds of disbelief reverberating, and the distinct noises of someone slamming their fist into a wall.
“He…why didn’t he talk to one of us? We could have helped!” The sentence came from Morgan’s direction.
It was Prentiss who answered - monotone. “He didn’t want to be a burden.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Everyone was crying - manliness be damned. Garcia was holding her chest, trying to keep herself together. Her color was gone, black clothes reflecting the void that Reid left when he departed. She refused to think of him as dead, just his soul simply departing his body.
Words flew by as each member of the team spoke, sharing heartwarming moments they each had with their genius. When it was her turn she shared the fun times they had in her office during the time he got shot in the leg, and the time he had gotten so smashed at one of the office Christmas parties. She had to stop when the tears became to much. The priest was speaking but no one was listening. They were trapped in their own personal hell.
“He shall forever be remembered. May god have mercy on his soul and let him into the eternal bliss of heaven…”
‘Reid didn’t believe in god. He didn’t believe in the afterlife.’ The thought strikes Garcia so suddenly she almost flinches. ‘It must be awful to never have faith in something of any kind.’
She watches in silence as her teammate - more like a brother than anything else - was lowered into the ground, the stark black of the coffin reflecting the image of the solemn team members.
He was truly gone.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For a brief moment Derek Morgan pretended it wasn’t real. Hoped it wasn’t real, but as the chilled hand reached out to trace the black letters within the marble stone the hope shattered.
Tears streamed down his face as he thought of the young agent lying beneath his feet. Memories of all the times they had smiled and laughed together, breaking away from the horrors of their job. The times he has seen the young man blush and ramble about some obscure topic that no one really knew anything about but didn’t want to interrupt him for fear of being rude.
For an innocent young genius who had one of the most respected jobs Reid had known way to many drinking games. Having called Morgan over several time to help nurse his hangover. But having Reid make a fool of himself on the dance floor had been more than worth it.
There were moments - wonderful moments - where Morgan would forget. Times in the office where he would get coffee and get one just the way Reid liked it. Morning where he would swing by Reid apartment expecting to see him standing outside waiting for Morgan to come pick him up. Instances where he would see a new sweater vest that would look great on the dead agent and grab it before he realized what he was doing. But it wouldn’t last. Slowly he would come to accept his death, and hopefully move on.
Casting a glance at the marble the words fidelity, bravery, integrity stood out and for a moment Derek was angry. Those words were not Spencer; they were just a part of Spencer. A part of Spencer that no one would ever be able to see again.
The shrill ring of his phone seemed to obscene in the quiet clearing. Looking down Derek saw that it was Hotch and answered reluctantly.
Life went on. It was cold and harsh but true never the less. With a heavy heart Derek Morgan left the cemetery.
“The life of the dead is placed in the heart of the living.” - Cicero
A/N: I always imagined Reid to be a heavy drinker. Obviously he is a light weight but I always thought of him as intoxicated a lot. The reasoning behind this is because normally people with above average intelligence tend to drink a lot more to feel more comfortable in their own skin. To those of you who disagree with me, sorry, but it’s just the way I see it. Hope you guys enjoyed the story.