Evolution, a Spencer Reid/Criminal Minds Fanfic

Chapter 43. Calling Hotch Home

Rossi was right about Ana being able to follow Reid without actually seeing him. She led them unerringly to the spot where Morgan was holding Hotch in a clumsy hug.

Morgan had let Hotch's weight fall against him, one arm locked around the back of Hotch's waist. His other hand was supporting his boss' chin, shaking him, patting his face, trying to get his eyes to open. He could feel the shallow, feeble movements of the man's chest against his own. He was afraid that slight proof of life might stop at any moment.

Inwardly, he vowed he'd twist Bescardi's head off of her shoulders the first chance he got. Hotch was ragged. His clothing hung in tatters and the patches of pale skin that showed through were a collage of bruises and gashes. Dust and grime were ground into some of the wounds.

It'll be a miracle if some of those cuts aren't already infected.

And there was something wrong with one leg. Morgan had reached Hotch at the moment he pitched forward, but he'd almost missed catching him. One knee refused to buckle. In its locked position, it had given his fall a sideways slant.

When Rossi arrived, he took hold of Hotch's shoulders from behind.

"Lay him down, Morgan. It's a long way to a hospital. We have to do what we can right now."

Once they had Hotch on the ground, Rossi folded a blanket beneath his head. He tore away what was left of the shredded jacket and shirt. When Morgan mentioned the leg injury, he used scissors from the first aid kit to slit Hotch's pants open from cuff to mid-thigh.

"Oh, man." Morgan pulled back the cloth, revealing a swollen, blackened knee that explained the leg's inability to bend.

"Check him." Rossi's command was terse, his voice rough with worry. Demonstrating the practiced efficiency of men who had seen too many disasters and watched too many survivors succumb at the last moment, both agents ran their hands over their fallen comrade's body. They felt for broken bones or ominous swellings that would indicate possible internal injuries.

Rossi was encouraged when the inspection didn't turn up any obvious, life-threatening problems. But he was deeply troubled that during all the poking and prodding and manipulating, Hotch hadn't stirred. He would dearly have loved to have heard a groan or any other sound that indicated absence, but not departure.

Still, the shallow movement of Hotch's chest continued.

"Sit him up." Rossi turned to the first aid kit which contained several packets of water beefed up with electrolytes and carbs. His eye fell on a vial of smelling salts and he sent up a fervent prayer of thanks to the Bureau for taking first aid to a higher level than the standard bandages, gauze and antibiotic ointment.

Morgan shifted, lifting Hotch's upper body and using himself as a prop to keep his friend in a sitting position. He reached around and placed a hand on Hotch's throat, tilting his head back, facilitating the process if Rossi wanted to try to make him swallow.

Rossi snapped open the vial of salts first and wafted it under Hotch's nose. No reaction. He locked eyes with Morgan for an instant, then held the vial steady, almost touching the nostrils. Nothing.

xxxxxxx

Reid and Ana had been staying out of the way, watching the battle to revive Hotch, or at least to distance him a little more from death. They had gravitated toward each other, seeking reassurance in a mutual embrace. When Hotch failed to respond, Ana felt Reid stiffen. She looked up at him.

"Spencer? What's going on with you?"

Reid was overwhelmed. Running through his mind, like a mantra of failure, endlessly looping...Too late. Too late. Too late. He looked down at the girl with her arms tight around him. She'd said something, but he couldn't hear past the horror of watching another life ebb away because he wasn't fast enough, strong enough, good enough. Had she said something to him? "W-what?"