Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds.

Alive.

He had given up drinking for a long while now. It was not conducive to his family life, nor his work life, and so he'd given up what had only been an occasional habit, anyway. But that night, he was damn well in need of something strong, and so, he had to settle with a bottle of scotch he procured from the very back of one of his kitchen cabinets. And he did not sit, but stood in his kitchen, with the glass gripped so hard in his hand that it was close to breaking.

Emily was alive. She was alive, albeit with a nasty scar, and the remnants of whatever else Doyle had done to her. And she'd have to deal with that on her own, because he wasn't allowed to know where she was. But that was miles above what the rest of his team knew—they thought she was dead. Hell, they'd seen her casket lowered into the ground.

JJ knew, too, but she didn't have to deal with it every day—the endless suffering that would be the aftermath of Emily's supposed death. Reid would mope, Morgan would fume, and Garcia would be teary-eyed at any reminder of her friend. He knew Rossi would come to him from time-to-time, because though it now seemed as if they had barely knew Emily, they both still missed her. Seaver would be without a mentor, now, but he knew Rossi would be willing to take over the role.

He wondered who got the shortest end of the stick. Was it his team, who would forevermore—until Doyle was safely put in his place, six feet below the ground, if that ever happened—believe that their friend and colleague had died a painful death? Or, was it he, who would now have to deal with knowing that Emily was safe, yet having to hide her death, while also being unable to contact her? Or, perhaps even more so, was it JJ, who knew where Emily was, because she'd relocated her, and yet could not tell a soul?

He would miss her. He would miss her wit, her humor, her prowess, with both profiling and out on the field. He would miss his colleague, Supervisory Special Agent Prentiss.

But most of all, he would miss his friend, Emily. The one who'd been there for him, after the Foyet ordeal, even before that—even when he hadn't wanted her to. It was almost ironic, how Emily had been there for all of them, and yet, when she needed help the most, she had gone off on her own. And, even now, when she would be safe, she would still be on her own.

Garcia had been able to contact Emily even after she'd ran off. He knew JJ had seen Emily—she'd told him that she looked good, that she was doing fine, but that was all. He needed something more, and yet he knew he wouldn't get it. He knew how witness protection worked, and though he cared about Emily, he valued her life above all. He wouldn't put her in jeopardy just so he could make contact. It wouldn't be right—it wasn't even an option.

He sank down onto the couch, his legs giving out at last. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, the last time he'd slept. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing her. Two people so close to him, lost in such proximity to each other—it was hard.

He knew he could deal with it. How well he would, well, that was a different story.

Doyle was still out there. He'd told Clyde he wouldn't, couldn't, put a bullet through Doyle's head, if it came to that. Now, things had changed. He hadn't imagined the situation turning out like this, and thus, his feelings toward Doyle had changed as well. He'd seen Emily, briefly, but he'd seen her before they'd taken her away. She'd looked like hell. Though Emily was safe, it was not out of sight, out of mind, and the same applied to Doyle.

He would be caught, eventually, and when he was, Hotch would be the first to explain to him, in detail, how the rest of his life would pan out. These details included slow, painful torture—just as he'd inflicted on Emily. Just as he'd inflicted on the entirety of his team.

And then Emily would return, and whether it would be to the team or not, didn't matter. The simple knowledge that she was alive would cause such a reaction in the team, it wouldn't matter whether she decided to return to the BAU or not. How could she, after all of this?

But these were mere fantasies that his own mind had conjured. Doyle had managed to evade the authorities for years—why would that change now? He wasn't going to be caught easily, if at all. The only thing Hotch could hope for was that Emily was happy wherever she was.

He'd downed two glasses of scotch when his phone vibrated from the kitchen counter. He briefly considered tossing it out the window, because he didn't want to deal with anyone or anything at the moment. The world could wait until the morning. But, it was force of habit that drew him to the device, and he glanced at the message that appeared on the screen.

It was from JJ.

'Don't worry. You know her. Everything's going to be okay.'

He could believe that, if he tried hard. He could force himself to believe that they could all spend the rest of their lives accepting what they'd been told, whether it was that Emily had finally found reprieve from her suffering, or that she was safe in some far corner of the world. But, deep down, he would never be content. He would miss her terribly.

He'd watched her find her place in the BAU, and within their own family unit, and that place would always be waiting for her.

There was only one thing that offered him some miniscule form of consolation:

She was alive.

Author's Note: I couldn't sleep without writing something, anything, about the episode. I have no more words, only the deep feeling of grief. Emily is my favorite character, and I know I'll miss her, and can only hope she'll come back. I hope this gave some kind of..solace, perhaps-a bit of closure, after that episode. It gave me at least a small sense of it. I may write something from Emily's perspective, after I recover. And, after I sleep. I hope this was sufficient.