Author's Note: At last. I am starting up the sequel to The Measure of the Spirit. Knowledge of that fic and of The Narrow of the Margin and The Heart of the Family will be necessary to enjoy this one, I'm afraid. I have high hopes that this one will not take as long to write as TMotS, but I am thinking that it might be about as long...

I do not own Bones or any of its characters.

I want to thank everyone who reads/follows/reviews this in advance. I hope that you will all enjoy this sequel.

The Recovery in the Nocturne

Doctor Lance Sweets wished he could sleep.

His inability to slumber had little to do with his sleeping arrangements. The guest room in Brennan's apartment was very comfortable and that included the bed he was lying on and the blanket that the anthropologist had given him in the hospital. Nor was his restlessness due to a lack of familiarity of his surroundings. For the past two months since leaving the hospital, Sweets had mostly been living with Brennan with short stints at Booth's apartment and Hodgins and Angela's place to break up the routine. The psychologist could not quite put his finger on why, but he often felt the most at ease when staying with Brennan while he recovered.

Sweets turned to lie on his back and stared at the ceiling. Logically, he knew that things like his worsening depression and his still severe PTSD were making it difficult for him to relax enough to be able to sleep, but that knowledge did not help much when faced with the challenge of feeling secure enough to close his eyes. In fact, mulling over all this only made his mood turn even sourer than it had been moments ago. Sweets frowned and flung his blanket away.

'I'm supposed to be a clinical psychologist,' he thought to himself. 'It's my job to help agents work through these kinds of things so that they can continue to work and lead normal lives. And yet here I am…I can't get through even one day without crying or having some kind of panic attack or flashback…often all three. I can't even calm myself enough to get a decent night's sleep. So much for my so-called talents and skills.'

The therapist clenched his hands into fists and pounded them into his mattress. He had come to an agreement with his friends and family to put off making any long-term career decisions until six months had passed since leaving the hospital at which time they would revisit the question of whether or not he was going to abandon psychology altogether. Sweets understood the reasoning behind this agreement. He had learned a long time ago in his training that it was usually a bad idea to make drastic, life-altering decisions too soon after a major trauma. On nights like this, however, it was impossible for Sweets to see how waiting a few months could make him change his mind. The only thing that did give him pause was the fact that he had not worked out any sort of alternative professional course to embark on instead.

'Stupid, worthless brat….'

Sweets immediately sat up and pressed his hands against his ears in what he knew to be a futile attempt to block Andrew's voice from his brain. He had hoped that the passage of time and the care and reassurance from his friends and family would dull the memory of his biological father's hate-filled voice or the things that were said and done to him. Instead, the words only became clearer and more pervasive day by day.

The psychologist finally gave up on sleeping and swung his legs over the side of the bed so he could stand up. The cast from his leg had been removed less than a week ago, and Sweets was still somewhat unaccustomed to the new-found freedom that his increased mobility gave him. He slowly stood up and moved out to the front room where he sat down onto the couch.

Uncomfortable with sitting in the dark, Sweets turned on a small lamp that was sitting on a stand nearby and stared at the objects in the room. Night like this always felt like they dragged on forever for Sweets and he was not relishing the thought of sitting up all night alone. He longed for the return of the sun so that its light could calm him. Partially from his anxiety and partially because of his recent illnesses and trauma, Sweets shivered where he sat.

'I just want to sleep. Please let me sleep,' he begged silently. But even in the midst of his unspoken pleas, the therapist knew that begging was useless. Besides, sleep usually meant nightmares which were made up of memories of his time as Jensen's captive. Thus, the only real rest he could get was the result of either total exhaustion or in the company of someone else watching over him, both of which led to generally dreamless slumbers.

Sweets sighed; he had wanted to try taking sedatives again so that he could get some additional sleep, but Werner and Wyatt, both of whom were still treating him, cautioned against it. Everyone else decided to take their recommendations to heart and made sure to keep any sleeping pills out of their homes while the psychologist stayed with them. It still chafed at Sweets when the others made decisions like that for him, but he was aware of how diligent they were being in trying to safeguard his health, so he managed to keep those feelings to himself for the most part.

The therapist's eyes burned while he yawned. Another reason that he wanted to get some sleep was because he was going to finally see Daisy again tomorrow.

For the past six months, Daisy had been part of an excavation of ruins down in Peru. Some skeletons had been found in an ancient village and Daisy had been one of a small group of grad students chosen to help work at the site. After his ordeal with Andrew, Brennan had apparently contacted Daisy and gave her the basic details about what had happened, along with updates a couple times after that. Unfortunately it had taken a long time for any of this information to reach Daisy due to the remote surroundings where she was working. Once she had found out though toward the end of her stay, she asked Brennan to keep her informed and to please keep taking care of "her Lancelot" until she came back.

Sweets was glad that Brennan broke the news to her, saving him from having to do it. But he knew that that would not be the end of it and that Daisy would want to know more about what happened…and that was something he was not looking forward to, thus his desire to be well rested at the very least.

The psychologist's shivering increased. Sweets also knew that Daisy would want more than to just talk about what happened. She would want to know about how he was being treated and how he was doing now. He could not fault her for any of that. Daisy cared and it was normal that she wanted to know as much as possible about his current condition.

Even more than any of that though, Sweets dreaded what was sure to happen if the two of them spent any private time alone together. Daisy would definitely want to "celebrate" their reunion in a more intimate way. That would entail her seeing all of his new scars along with the old ones…one of which he had not discussed with anyone.

Sweets unconsciously brushed his fingers near the area of this new scar, the result of a burn to the skin. He had noticed it while he was in the hospital and it had hurt more than the ones on his torso, but he could not remember when he had gotten it. It wasn't until the end of his stay there that the memories started coming back to him.

'This is your fault…You wanted this.'

'I'm going to make sure everyone knows just how damaged you really are.'

'You'll never escape me, Lance.'

Sweets felt his heart start to race and his breathing speed up. He then squeezed his eyes shut.

'No not now…Please don't let me go back to that now….Please…"

"Doctor Sweets?"

The soft voice broke Sweets out of his reverie, and he almost fell off the couch as a result. He whirled around to see Brennan standing behind the couch, clad in a robe and pajamas.

"Doctor Brennan," he answered his voice jittery. "I'm sorry if I woke you up. I can just go back to my room and…."

"I was awakened, but that was mainly due to my own restlessness," Brennan responded. "It wasn't because of anything you did. Once in a while, I have trouble sleeping, though not to the extent that you do these days."

Sweets nodded slightly and then looked away, his heart still pounding in his chest. He tried to hide it, but he could feel his breaths becoming shallower. He was sure that Brennan noticed it or if she didn't she soon would. The anthropologist walked over to sit next to Sweets on the couch and placed one of her hands over his.

"Would you like me to sit with you for a while?" she asked, her thumb rubbing the back of his hands.

"No, you don't have to," Sweets answered in a strained, thin voice. "I'll be fine."

"Sweets, your breathing is becoming rapid and shallow again, and I suspect that your heart rate is accelerating," she said. "Chef Wyatt has mentioned that all of that along with your shivering are classic symptoms of a panic attack. Having observed you closely for the past two months, I am inclined to agree with Wyatt's judgment."

Sweets shivered some more as he hung his head. When he had first left the hospital, he had made the decision to try to hide his distress as much as possible, but he knew that he had been far from successful.

"I…I'm sorry," he murmured. Brennan patted his hands and got up from the couch. About a minute later she returned with the blanket from his bed and proceeded to drape it around his shoulders.

"I hope this will be sufficient to keep you warm until this passes," Brennan said. "I'm going to make some tea as well."

"Doctor Brennan, you don't have to…."

"Numerous studies have attributed chamomile tea with the ability to facilitate relaxation," Brennan said as she walked into the kitchen. "There is a good chance that it could help the both of us get some additional rest."

Sweets nodded again and sat as still as he could so that he could concentrate on controlling his breathing. Ever since he was a teenager, he had learned and practiced various methods to help him deal with stress and anxiety. It had proven to be a vital skill as he learned to deal with his horrific early childhood and the loss of his parents later on in life. It had also been important to him as he dealt with the pressures of working through the world of academia at an accelerated and intense rate. Recently, he had gone over some these techniques with Wyatt and had practiced them during the once weekly informal "sessions" the two of them had.

Still, he couldn't help but feel like a child again while sitting here shivering under a blanket as he tried desperately to calm himself down. He was glad that his breathing was starting to level out, but now a cold sweat was forming on his brow, indicating that his panic attack was far from over.

Brennan rejoined him on the couch a moment later and upon seeing his distress took both of his hands into hers.

"You don't need to apologize to me, Sweets," she said. "The research I have read has informed me that panic attacks are partially involuntary responses to outside stimuli which involve the activation of the sympathetic nervous system, leading to all of your symptoms. But…I imagine that you already knew about that."

Sweets tried to smile despite the vague, but all too real fear that had filled his soul.

"Would you like to continue our discussion now?" Brennan asked. "Or would you prefer quiet?"

"No…no I would rather talk," he said. "What were we talking about last time? I think it was The Merchant of Venice?"

"Yes, it was," Brennan smiled at him. "Let's continue from there."

During the time that he had been staying with the anthropologist, Sweets discovered that the two of them were probably the most well-read members of their little group and so they could discuss classic literature with each other for hours. As a result, they ended up spending many mornings and some evenings continuing a prolonged conversation about some of their favorite works. They had touched on Milton, the poetry of the Romantic period, and Proust previously before moving onto Shakespeare.

Sweets had quickly grown to relish these conversations. His parents had also been avid readers, but since their passing, reading and savoring literature had become more of a solitary activity. Brennan's vast reading experience along with her intelligence made it so that Sweets did not have to hold back in the least in his meticulous analysis of each work, and the both of them found these talks to be a refreshing change of pace.

They began to discuss the plot and characters from the play until the tea kettle whistled, and Brennan left the room again to tend to it. While she was gone, Sweets was relieved to discover that his panic attack was starting to dissipate. A couple minutes later Brennan reappeared with a teapot and a pair of cups and poured each of them some tea before sitting back down. They went back to talking about the play again until Sweets eventually let her take over most of the conversation.

Sitting here with her, it finally occurred to Sweets why he felt so comforted at her place. Time with Brennan was a blanket when he was cold, a gentle hand on his when he was scared, and company when he needed it. She did not prod at him about the things that plagued him nor did she mince her words when she spoke to him or shy away from the truth. Sweets loved all of his family dearly, but Brennan seemed to be the most adept at giving him the space he needed while still staying close enough to help him feel secure.

Deep down, Sweets knew why this was. It was because she was somewhat like him: a private person who still needed to have a family to nurture and to receive nurturing from.

Almost an hour later, their discussion began to wind down, and Sweets started to feel tired again. There was, however, one last thing that was making him feel uneasy.

"Doctor Brennan, you know that Daisy is coming back tomorrow, right?"

"Yes," Brennan said as she sat her teacup down. "You had mentioned a couple of days ago that you would like to meet her at my office. And I would venture that the two of you will probably end up spending some time alone together at your apartment tonight."

"Yeah, I guess we will," the psychologist shrugged.

"You said that with a hesitant tone of voice," Brennan pointed out. "Are you not looking forward to seeing Miss Wick again?"

"No I am," Sweets answered. "But I…How much did you tell her about what happened to me?"

"I told her that your biological father kidnapped you and tortured you for around three or four days," Brennan answered. "I also mentioned your subsequent coma and gave her a very brief outline of your injuries, along with telling her about your current living arrangements." She saw Sweets shudder violently and became concerned. "Should I have said less?"

"No, that's ok," Sweets said. "I appreciate your thoroughness and candor with her."

"Booth mentioned that you might be reluctant to bring up the subject with Miss Wick, but that you also would probably not want to have any of us to go into too much detail about your ordeal."

'And Booth would be right,' Sweets thought to himself as he reflected on how grateful he was that Booth had guided Brennan on how to inform Daisy about what happened.

"Perhaps there is some other reason why you are hesitant about seeing Miss Wick?" Brennan added.

"I…." Sweets sat the teacup he was holding down and clasped his hands together. "When we are together, I don't…I don't want her to see…."

"See what?" the anthropologist asked.

"I don't want her to see…" Sweets' voice trailed off as he ran his hands along his body.

"Oh, you don't want her to see the scars from your recent injuries," Brennan said. "Which could happen if you are engaging in sexual activity."

Sweets blushed and looked away. He had always admired how straightforward she was, but that did not make moments like this any less uncomfortable.

"But Sweets, I'll assume that Daisy has already seen the scars on your back before," Brennan said. "She did not seem to have a problem with them then."

"That was different," the psychologist insisted. "That was before…It's worse now…I'm worse now…."

That last sentence was said in a whisper, his voice growing rough with tears.

"This isn't just about your physical scars, is it?" Brennan asked quietly. Sweets did not respond, the tears starting to roll down his cheeks. He was afraid that if he started talking, he would start blubbering, and he did not want that.

"I'm not sure how to advise you on all of this," she continued. "I think Wyatt or Booth could give you the guidance you need for most of it. But as far as your physical appearance goes…."

Brennan moved closer to Sweets and held his hand again.

"Anthropologically speaking, there is a common tradition among many societies to revere men who survive great confrontations," she said. "Their scars were seen as proof of their bravery and their ability to survive in the face of death."

"Perhaps among tribal groups," Sweets sniffed. "But here…."

"I know that you have read Booth's file and as a result, you know about the many injuries he has received both in the Army and in the service of the FBI," she added. "I know that when I consider his injuries, I do not concern myself with the surface appearance of his scars, but instead focus on the good, strong, caring man who survived and who protected others."

"Booth's a warrior," Sweets wept. "I'm not. I got these scars because...because I'm too weak."

"Strength is not only measured in physical prowess," Brennan argued. "You could have easily died from the injuries that Jensen inflicted upon you. You survived partially because you have a great deal of fortitude. And I believe that Daisy will care more about that than any physical markers of what happened to you."

Overtaken by emotion and warm regard, Sweets reached over to embrace Brennan tightly. The anthropologist quickly returned the embrace.

"Thank you, Doctor Brennan," he sniffed, trying to rein in his tears.

"You're welcome, Doctor Sweets," Brennan said as she let him go. "I hope you enjoy your time with Daisy tomorrow…Now, would you like to go back to your room to get some rest or would you rather stay here?"

"Could I stay here for now?" he asked.

"Sure," Brennan said as she got up. She fetched a book from her shelves and sat down in a chair next to the couch. "I will read for a while. Feel free to lie down if you want."

Suddenly feeling very drowsy, Sweets did just that, pulling his blanket over himself as he did so. His eyes closed as soon as his head touched one of the pillows that was sitting on the end of the couch, and a few minutes later he was asleep. Brennan ended up reading for about thirty minutes before putting her book down and clearing the teapot and cups away. She decided to leave the lamp on for him and was about to walk out of the room when she found herself hesitating. She then checked on Sweets and adjusted his blanket so that it covered him better. Once she was satisfied with her work, she patted his arm.

"Good night, Sweets," she whispered before leaving the room.

Sweets did not awaken during any of this and managed to stay asleep for the rest of the night.