High and Drowning

Chapter 11

homecoming [hōmˌkəmiNG]

a noun

the instance of returning home

_________

He was finally going home. Even if his brain was refusing to make enough serotonin, that statement alone helped increase the low levels. 

He had been in there for a week and a half. Ten days. Ten awful days. He shivered, arms tucked around each other as he waited for Hotch to come and pick him up. 

He held the folder loosely in one hand and the bag with his medicine in the other. 

His foot bounced up and down and the receptionist smiled condescendingly at him. He didn't smile back. 

A flurry of color attached him and for a solid thirty seconds he was swamped by an overwhelming amount of chunky necklaces, loud vibrant colors, and intense floral perfume. 

"Reid!" The owner of said overwhelming stimuli stepped back from her hug and gazed at him. 

"Garcia." He croaked out. He smiled awkwardly and gripped his bag tighter. 

Hotch materialized behind her and gave him stoic half-smile. "She insisted on coming. Actually." He had an apologetic look on his face as the door slid open. "They all did." 

As one the team slid through the doors, and towards him, arguing and riffing off each other. Teasing each other with the ease that comes with familiarity. 

JJ peeled off from the group and grabbed his hands. "Spence, you're coming home!" Her eyes sparkled with happiness, and he gave her a smile. She took the crinkled folder from him, keying in to the fact that he was slightly overwhelmed with everything. 

Morgan stood and watched, waiting for his chance to butt in. "Hey kid, finally. Place is real boring without you." He extended his fist and Reid, acknowledged it with one of his own. 

Prentiss stood in the back and smiled at the rush of things. She offered to take the bag and folder and helped move the group of people out. She smiled at Hotch. It had been a long time since it had felt this normal. 

________

Home. Home. They had offered to stay a while with him, help him to get settled back in, but he refused. He really just wanted to shower, in peace, and go to sleep, in peace. 

Finally some goddamn peace. 

He couldn't help but crack a tired smile at the calendar that Garcia had pinned up in his kitchen. Bright pen marked the times for him to take his medicine and when his appointments were due. He should probably take them now. 

He pulled his refrigerator open and tears pricked at his eyes. 

They had gone out and refilled his refrigerator, and yeah, his pantry too. A long missed sensation flurried briefly in his chest and he shook his head at the overwhelming thoughtfulness. 

You really lucked out with them. Then. Why did you have to go and wreck it?  Scornful. Accusing. 

He frowned. Closing the door, he popped the pills in his mouth and headed off to bed, willing the voices in his head to pipe down, just for the night, just for a few hours. 

________

Spencer was surrounded by his team, sorrow and unhinged anger in their eyes.  

How could you. How could you. How could you. 

Over and over, like a drum beating a death knell. He curled in on himself.