Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds.

Going Back.

"If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Building's burn, people die, but real love is forever." –From the movie The Crow.

Mistakes happen. And in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, when they do, they often turn out deadly. Situations can change, assumptions may be made. They were all reminded of those facts the hard way this time.

It was supposed to be a routine question and answer with the suspected UNSUB's parents. They'd already gone to the suspect's house; he wasn't there. The team presumed he'd found out that the FBI was after him, and fled. How could they have known he'd be hiding in the back room of his parent's home, only five minutes from his own, with a .38 clutched in his hand?

A nervous-looking woman had opened the door and stammered a greeting. It seemed as if she'd been expecting them, though, she could provide no useful information, no intimation that her son was in that very same building. And then the man himself made himself known, rounding the corner into the foyer and pulling the trigger on his revolver.

Blood splatter stained the wood of the porch. Some of the bodily fluid had pooled, forming a puddle next to the body. Emily's body. The bullet had hit her square in the chest, and she'd gone down without so much as a whimper. Hotch had reacted quickly, his own Glock in his hand in a matter of seconds, and he gunned down the UNSUB before he could pull the trigger a second time. After making sure the bullet had ingrained itself deep into the recesses of his brain, he'd yelled to the mother to call emergency services before diving to his knees at Emily's side.

"You got him, huh?" Despite her dire situation, she seemed strangely optimistic. Hotch nodded, ripping his suit jacket from his body and pressing it to the gaping wound.

"Yeah, Em, I got him."

She coughed, and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. "Tell Morgan that he won the bet."

"What bet?"

"He said that I'd hurt myself again. I'm almost as bad as Reid now." She managed a pained chuckle.

"Emily, you can tell him yourself. The medics are going to come, we'll get you to the hospital, and you're going to be fine."

She reached up, ignoring the latter statement and the pain that seared through her body with the movement, pulling his face close to hers. "Hotch, I love you."

And then she was gone, her body suddenly going limp underneath his hands. He pulled her body close to his, not letting go until the paramedics arrived and pried her from his grasp.

One date. That was all they'd been on, to a nice Italian restaurant. They'd walked through the park afterwards, under the stars, and she'd quickly kissed him before disappearing into her apartment once their night together came to a close. That was three days ago.

They'd always been attracted to each other. But, it wasn't until they'd gone out that night that he'd realized just how special she was to him. Hell, she'd been the one to ask him out, in true Emily fashion, after cornering him in his office one day. Her excuse had been that they were both lonely, so why not see if they could work out something together?

Now he stood at the head of her casket, thinking how unfair this all was. Ambassador Prentiss had shed a few tears, but otherwise kept herself composed. John Cooley had been there as well, though hadn't approached the team directly. There were many others, people that Hotch didn't think even Emily would recongnized.

Everyone had left the cemetery except the team. JJ and Garcia had their heads pressed together, and Morgan had his arm wrapped around the technical analyst's shoulders. Reid stood off awkwardly to the side, murmuring to himself. But soon, even they all slowly dispersed, leaving Hotch and Rossi alone.

Tears flowed freely from Hotch's eyes. Two funerals in a year would be hard for anyone to deal with, and he'd been so emotionally invested with both people. Rossi clapped a hand onto his friend's shoulder.

"You loved her."

"I love her," he corrected.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's not fair." He was doing all he could not to break down sobbing.

"I know. Life isn't fair."

"That doesn't make it right."

Emily sat on the couch in his living room, her legs tucked underneath her body, sipping a glass of Pinot Noir and flipping through a case file. He came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and placing a kiss to the top of her head. She pulled him next to her, a smile brightening her face.

A wedding band flashed on her finger as her hands pressed against his chest. He nuzzled his head into her neck, trailing his lips along her collarbone.

"Emily," he breathed. "This isn't real. You're not here; you're gone."

"I'm real here," she whispered, and he caught a whiff of the familiar scent of her shampoo as she bent her head closer to him.

It was the same dream every night. It was torturing him, seeing her, feeling her, while he was asleep, and then waking up to an empty bed and a horrifying reality. He had turned into a hollow shell of himself, barely managing to make it through the day.

One night, he decided to drown his sorrows in a bottle of scotch. After he'd emptied the contents of his stomach, he lay on the floor of his apartment, his fingers tracing over the hard plastic of his Glock.

Jack spent more time at Jessica's house than with his own father. Soon, he'd simply become a faded memory to his son. The team could find a replacement. But there was no replacement for her.

He ripped a piece of paper from a legal pad on his desk and scribbled something onto it, before putting the gun to his temple.

'I'm going back to her.'