AN: Just letting anyone who reads this know that it is indeed a birthday fic for my friend Katrina, I will only be updating a few times and reviews are not necessary but I guess if you want to give them feel free? Thanks for reading!

PT I

Booth woke up breathless, exhausted and exasperated. The nightmares were only getting worse. He wondered if they would ever go away.

Ever since the coma he'd been having such vivid dreams; they were feeling more like visions. He could taste, smell, feel everything that was going on around him. He shakily sat up and hung his legs over the right side of his bed. Trying to gain his breath back, Booth used every breathing technique in the book. He held his breath, he did the short breaths one tells a mother-to-be to do, he took long inhales and short exhales, short inhales and long exhales, he took deep inhales and exhales but none of it helped. Of course, when did it ever?

Booth began to feel less flushed as he stood up, but he was still dizzy. He stood still for what felt like hours, but really it was merely moments; it was until the feeling of dizziness had overcome him. He looked at his clock; 4:47am. Too late to go back to sleep, but too early to do anything else. Booth ran his hands through his greasy hair; it was Monday, he was given the weekend off and decided to spend it drinking beers, watching hockey, giving no shit about personal hygiene and doing anything he could to not fall asleep.

He needed to be at the FBI for 6:00, so he decided the best thing to do would be to have a shower. He walked steadily into his bathroom and flicked the light switch. The light was so bright it blinded him, although the light being as bright as it always was, it was just his corneas taking the rough impact. Booth looked at himself in the mirror, he looked like shit. His sweaty, greasy hair stuck to his forehead and his eyes had black bags under them. He hoped he could clean himself up well enough to at least look professional.

Booth stripped himself of his boxer shorts; the only clothing he wore to bed. He learned from early on that if he wore anything else he would feel like he was on fire. The only downside to not wearing anything were the scratches. Booth unconsciously scratched at his skin while he slept. Unfortunately, he did leave marks; everywhere. Today was particularly awful. He had one long incision, courtesy of his fingernails, from wrist to inner elbow, and boy it stung. Booth had only noticed its appearance when he had turned on the tap and the water came gushing out. The water's purity viciously sent pain throughout Booth's arm.

Booth sighed as he stepped into the shower, knowing that there would only be more numbing pain until he stepped out once again. First thing he did was grab the soap; he scrubbed himself from head to toe. After he became one with the pain he let the water rush over his every crevice until the sight of the cleaner was gone. Next he grabbed the shampoo and massaged his oily head. The grime slowly oozed out of it as Booth stood under the running water.

Booth wasn't one for singing in the shower; he was more one for thinking. As Booth stood, he became lost in the rush of the water and the sound of it patting against his skin. He thought about his life, his actions, his words, his feelings. He didn't like what was happening to him. It was in the past, why wasn't it staying there? He gladly and honourably served his country but the things he did, even when there was no other option, he wanted to forget; why was it so hard to forget?

Booth had never had trouble with repressing his memories before but now, now they were all resurfacing. He didn't know why, just that everything came back after the coma. He wanted, no, needed, someone to talk to. But who? And why? And when, and where, and how? There were so many questions, and no time to answer.

Booth drifted back to reality when he noticed the change in temperature of the water. His apartment was shit, nothing ever stayed the same. Water changed, air conditioning changed, even the damn key had to be replaced every few months. Booth scrubbed himself once more, rinsed off, and turned off the tap. He stepped out, grabbed his towel and began to dry himself off. He wiped his hands on the foggy mirror and took a look at himself. He still had the bags, but at least he was clean. Floor squeaking, he walked back into his bedroom and grabbed his outfit for the day; black dress pants, white cuffed shirt, black jacket, "Stewie" boxer shorts, pinstriped socks and the watch his grandfather gave to him. He threw his clothes on the bed, and began to dress himself. He dressed the way he always had; the way he learned in the army. Socks, boxers, pants, all necessary in case of a raid through headquarters; then deodorant, dress shirt, watch and jacket.

Booth stepped back into the misty bathroom and grabbed his gel from the cupboard. He squirted the goo onto his hands, rubbed it in, and applied it to his hair. Booth's hair was naturally wavy, so he needed the gel to keep it in line. After the gel started to harden, Booth left his hair how it was and walked into his kitchen; if you could even call it that.

Lately, Booth had been living off take-out. He had absolutely no food. He had maybe two apples in his fridge, rotten by no doubt. The only thing he had left was coffee, and lately, that was the only thing his stomach would take in the morning. Booth stirred the liquid and went back to his thoughts from earlier in the shower. If he were to talk, who to? He needed to, obviously, but he didn't know how. That's precious, he thought, just walk right up to Sweets and say "I've been having memories of torturing and being tortured lately, and I can remember every single detail, and sometimes, I enjoy it" yes, because that's great. Get the shrink on your tail about 'murderous impulses'. No thanks.

Booth looked down to his now cooled coffee and took a tender sip. The heat from the drink rushed through his esophagus, and may have, if possible, burnt him. Booth slammed the mug down on his counter and walked toward his television. He turned on the news channel and the time in the bottom left corner read 5:36am. Still a half hour until he had to be at headquarters, Booth decided to leave early. He left the coffee mug, and he had hoped his anger, on the counter.

He locked the door to his apartment, and flipped open his cell phone; no messages. Walking down the stairs, Booth's headache came back. The one he had every day; always painful, but varying to different degrees. Good thing there's aspirin in the car, he thought.

Grabbing his keys out of his pocket, Booth unlocked the Sequoia and stepped in. Before putting the keys in ignition, Booth took one last look at himself in the mirror. Still looked like shit, but at least he was bearable for work. Opening the glove box, Booth took the lid off the bottle and shook out three pills. He took them dry, and turned the keys to start the car.

When Booth got to the Hoover he set the car in park and maneuvered around the underground prison. Entering the elevator, he sighed but was joyful to find himself alone; last thing he wanted was to make small talk with some agent. Getting to his floor, Booth ran his left hand through his hair and walked toward his office.

There were few agents in the bullpen, Booth was glad of that. He wasn't feeling great and if one of them tried to come over and suck up to him he would probably lose it. Opening to door to his office, he shut it right behind him. He wanted people to know he was in a no-meet mode. Sitting down in his chair, Booth looked at all of the paperwork on his desk; he needed to do it, but at the moment, it was really the last thing on his mind. Something caught his eye; it was a profile Sweets left him for the case they had started.

A child's remains were found lodged under a dock, and as usual Bones did her examination. Obviously cause of death was asphyxiation; Booth didn't understand why she couldn't call it 'drowning'. Apparently there was a difference, but Booth didn't really care. On the bright Friday afternoon they brought the remains back to the lab, Booth was less than optimistic. He made rude comments to the squints, he left his keys on Brennan's slab. She yelled at him that he might 'compromise the evidence' and told him to leave. Booth found himself walking outside of Cam's office and she noticed him slunk by. She was the one that told him to take a break, possibly the weekend off. He listened.

That's it! Booth thought. I can talk to her! I hope… Flipping to the part that actually mattered in Sweets' review Booth found himself distracted. He finally thought of who he could talk to about his problems. He knew Cam wouldn't tell, she'd told him enough things that he kept secret. Now he just needed to think on how to go about the subject, he couldn't just walk in and say "I've been thinking about murdering people lately, want to go for pizza?"

A knock on the door brought Booth back to reality, but Booth frowned as he saw the young psychologist smile at him through the glass. Booth waved his hand in the most unenthusiastic way that was possible to man. Sweets opened the door and shut it behind him lightly, obviously the agent needed privacy. "Hello Agent Booth" the young man greeted him. Booth groaned. "Something the matter?" the psychologist questioned. "See what you did there Sweets, you called me Agent Booth which means this is business and I don't really want to talk business so if you wouldn't mind leaving…" Booth said as he flipped mindlessly through papers.

"Actually Booth this is business and you're coming with me because it seems that you have forgotten we had a meeting this morning."

"Shit, we had a meeting?" Booth croaked. He wasn't telling this kid anything that was going on inside his head.

"Yes, we did. Seven sharp so that you could get a head start to the Jeffersonian but I guess you forgot about that also." Sweets inquired.

Booth looked at his watch; 7:53. Where the hell was the time going?

"Well, sorry Sweets, but I should head off to Bones." Booth grumbled.

"Actually, Agent Booth it's come to my attention that seeing Doctor Brennan at this time would be of no benefit to you."

"And why the hell do you say that?!" Booth argued. This was most certainly not a good morning.

"I have been told that you are becoming a nuisance at the lab, and I want to ask you what is going on."

"Nothing's going on; I just want to get to my people!" Booth exclaimed. If he didn't leave he was going to blow his top at this kid.

"Booth, in times of emotional distress it is known for people to become angry, irrational, out of breath, lose sleep and lose weight. Please tell me Booth, what categories do you fall under? Because I can tell you right now I see you in three."

"Yeah, keep telling me what's wrong me and you might just see more than the usual." Booth threatened.

"Booth, I am not scared of your alpha-male tendencies. I've actually grown quite accustomed to them. But before you set off to find Doctor Brennan, tell me what's on your mind."

"What's on my mind," the agent said leaning in closer and closer to the psychologist, removing any signs of a personal bubble, "is that I need to see Bones. Have a nice day, Sweets." He replied bitterly before opening the door and with no attempt to shut it. The boy could close it himself.

The doors to the elevator couldn't close soon enough, as the psychologist came running out of the office. "Agent Booth," he panted, "we still need to make up for your missed meeting."

"Yeah, sure thing Sweets. Pencil me in" the agent replied lamely as the doors shut, Sweets leaving his sight.

Still wondering where the time had gone, Booth pulled into early-morning DC traffic. "Perfect" he muttered, turning on the radio. There was nothing Booth found interesting. He hated country, hated pop, and every rock station had their DJ's on the air. Booth shut off the device and slammed his hand against the wheel.

After sitting in traffic for 15 minutes, Booth had enough of this ridiculousness. He flipped on his lights, turned on the sirens and pulled out from behind the Volkswagen that had graced him with its vibrant presence. To his surprise, cars moved out of the way. Booth was at the Jeffersonian in no less than 10 minutes.

Walking into the sanctuary, Booth took no time stop for smiles. He was right down to business. He was so involved in getting himself to Brennan he walked right onto the platform steps without swiping his card. The buzzers went off, the lights started flashing, all of the guards came running and that left one angry Brennan staring at Booth.

"Booth…" Brennan steamed, "get off my platform."

"Whoa, hey Bones. I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean to rush, well actually I did, it was to get away from Sweets… you know what I mean right?" Booth flashed what he thought was his charm smile.

"No. I don't."

"I was just rushing to see you, that's all…" Booth rubbed the back of his neck.

"Well Booth if I needed you I would have called you. I don't need you right now so get off my platform. Thank you."

"Well, uh, okay."

Booth slugged down the steps, the security guards frowning as he did so. Booth was looking down as he walked right into Hodgins. "Hodgi-" Booth looked down, "what the fu-"

"Whoa! Sorry man…" the entomologist replied lamely as he looked down at the excrement smudges on Booth's white shirt.

"Honestly! I'm taking a break!" Booth bellowed as he walked out of his embarrassment's prison.

Booth was almost home-free when sensed he was being followed. Booth turned around with the slightest bit of effort when he saw Cam marching toward him. "You know, Cam, right now really isn't the best time."

"You know, Boo-" the coroner chuckled, "is that what I think it is?"

"Oh, and more…" Booth replied.

"Well I was just coming to tell you that Sweets called, apparently he is free for a meeting right now." Cam said curiously.

"Yeah, well, tell him I don't need it."

"It sounded pretty serious, Seeley" Cam said, tone turning personal.

"Well, Camille, tell him I don't want it nor do I need it."

"Nor? Seeley you only use proper grammar when something's wrong. I know you."

Booth sighed as he felt his mind surrender. "I'll talk about it later…" the agent murmured walking toward his car.

"I'll be waiting!" Cam hollered, still unsure of whether she should leave him in the obvious state of trouble he was in.