A/N: I don't know how many Bones fics I'll do -- with the exception of my LOTR stuff, most of my fanfic results from things which bother me in a show I otherwise love -- scenes which feel unfinished, relationships I want to further explore, etc. With Bones, I'm mostly content with how the series is going, and am content to wait for what HH and Co. give us. The exception to that is the mess which was the follow-up to Wannabe in the Weeds. The beginning of PitH is the low point of the entire show for me -- I feel like they sold out everything they'd established about both Booth and Brennan for a laugh (the bathtub scene) and as for Sweets...I didn't begin to warm up to him again until Mayhem on a Cross. With a degree in psychology (and advanced grad work, though I never practiced) what he did was beyond unethical. (I'll stop that with, rather than bore you with the rant I'm quite capable of going on at this point.)

So...this is AU, though by the end of the story it veers back to canon, or close to it. Although it's set after WitW, it contains mild spoilers for S4.

The M rating is solely for some language. I don't normally swear myself, but just couldn't convince the two characters not to, given the situation.

Sunday, 3AM

"I'm sorry."

Later, much later, it would occur to her that the doctor seemed unnaturally uncomfortable speaking those words. At the time, she registered it as the expected response of a young doctor not yet used to breaking apart the lives of survivors.

Later, much later, she would wonder…if she had been able to pay more attention to what the doctor said next, would she have seen the incongruences in the reasons he was giving for why the death had occurred? But her shock at such a sudden deterioration from 'good prognosis' to 'I'm sorry' had temporarily reduced even the mighty brain of Temperance Brennan to blankness.

Angela was weeping. Hodgins was swearing softly. Zach had a completely blank look on his face, and Cam, appearing equally stunned, was nevertheless grilling the increasingly nervous looking doctor.

Carefully, afraid the next thing to break would be herself, Brennan turned and left the hospital waiting room. It was odd, she thought as she drove home, that she was aware that her mind was empty. Not being aware of feelings wasn't unusual for her. Not thinking…that was beyond rare.

Uncomfortable with the sensation, she tried to force herself to normality. Booth was dead. Normal required that she consider that, examine it from all angles, and then do whatever came next. Booth was dead, she ran the words through her mind again – he'd died after stepping into a bullet for her. The scene at the club replayed itself, and she let it, thinking perhaps she could make sense of the whole thing that way.

But Booth was still dead.

She walked into her apartment and stood there in the darkness for several long minutes, unsure of exactly what did come next. Then she glanced down, and saw the blood. His blood. Even knowing she'd never wear the green top again, she was careful when she unbuttoned it and dropped it on the floor as she made her way to the bathroom.

So much blood. Despite working with bones, not tissue, she was used to blood. But not his.

Barely aware of stripping off the rest of her clothes, she ran the water as hot as she could stand before stepping under the spray.

It was essential she remain calm. Rational. Focused. There was no point whatsoever in giving in to some emotional storm.

He would still be dead.

Gone from her, like so many others – her parents, Russ, the one set of foster parents she'd liked. Granted, her father and Russ had come back into her life, but still…the memory of that hollow feeling when she'd understood they had left her was there.

Booth hadn't wanted to leave her. It seemed important, somehow, to recognize that. He'd died saving her. Died being the hero. Died being Booth.

But the result was the same. He was gone.

No more companionable cups of coffee at the diner. No more shared beers after a case. No more arguments in the truck. No more guy hugs.

No more knowing there was someone besides herself to count on in her life.

And then she thought of Parker. Under the water, she actually staggered with the awareness that whatever her loss was, his would be greater. She tried to imagine Rebecca telling the little boy he'd never see his father again, and couldn't.

Even as an adult who'd spent half her life assuming that her parents had perished, the confirmation of her mother's death had been a blow. What would his father's death at such a young age do to Parker?

Tears began to fall, mixing with the hot water. Parker's fate wouldn't be hers. She knew that. He'd never know a foster home, as he had not only Rebecca but her parents who, according to Booth, doted on him. But still, imagining the little boy's loss tore a sob from her throat.

It was irrational to dwell on it having been her fault. Booth could have died a hundred times. Any given day could have been the day he didn't duck fast enough.

But it hadn't been, and he hadn't been ducking at all. He'd been leaping in front of the gun. To save her.

And now, he wasn't coming back.

Broken, she sank down to the floor of the tub, her tears mixing with the water and his blood.

The part of her brain that remained stubbornly rational gave her until the water ran cold to indulge herself in the catharsis. And when it did, when she realized she was shivering, she reached up and turned off the faucet before standing and grabbing a towel. Methodically, she dried off and then applied her lotion, distantly aware of taking comfort in the ritual.

And then she did what Temperance Brennan always did when faced with the unfaceable. She went to work.

Sunday, 11PM

Apart from the short nap she'd taken that afternoon in her office, she'd spent the entire day working by herself in the lab. No one else had come in – not surprising for a Sunday – and the quiet had been just what she needed to get her balance back.

And she'd identified two sets of remains from bone storage.

But she'd reached her physical limit. It was time to go home. At least with no FBI cases to work, she'd be able to continue making progress on bodies awaiting identification. It was probably best not to think about that too much, though, given why it was so.

Stretching, she took off her lab coat and reached for her handbag. Noting the light on her cell phone was blinking, she glanced at the readout, puzzled to see how many calls she'd missed. Angela. Cam. Angela. Hodgins. Her father. Angela. Russ. Cam. Her father. Sweets. Russ. Angela. Her father. Confused, it took a moment to remember that she'd put it on vibrate at the hospital and thus hadn't heard it ringing.

Just as well, as she'd made a lot of progress identifying bones that she wouldn't have made if she'd talked to everyone who called her. She supposed they wanted to talk about Booth, but it was still puzzling. What was there to say, after all?

And why had her father and Russ called her so many times? It was really very strange.

Monday, 11AM

It was with a feeling of relief that she left the lab for an early lunch meeting. Her co-workers were all going to lunch together, and Angela, at least, had seemed quite dismayed that Brennan wasn't going. But after an entire morning of trying to work while those around her talked of nothing but Booth, or in Angela's case, cried over Booth…she was grateful for the appointments she'd made first thing that morning with her accountant and her lawyer.

Heading back to the Jeffersonian afterward, she felt pleased with the decisions she'd made. No one seemed to know whether Booth's death would be considered in the line of duty or not, a detail which would affect the payout Rebecca would receive for Parker. Although she was certain that Booth would have additional policies in place to protect his son, she'd felt it necessary to do something as well.

It felt good to have set up a trust fund for the little boy. Regardless of whether the FBI judged the shooting as line of duty or not (after all, while related to the case they'd just been working, they'd been on their own time) Parker would have plenty of money for college. She hoped Booth would have approved.

And then, while there, she'd done something similar for Amy's little girls. Russ wouldn't like it if he found out – he wanted to provide for them – but, well, he didn't need to know right away. And it wasn't as if she were going to have children of her own to provide for.

Monday, 5PM

"Brennan?"

Absorbed in the report she was writing, she was slow to look up. And then, at the sight of Angela's tearful face, wished she'd been even slower. "Yes, Angela?"

"Are you heading home soon? I thought we might stop and get something to eat at the diner together."

The diner? Without Booth? "I really need to finish this report, Ange."

The other woman hesitated before finally speaking again. "Oh. I see. Okay, then. I'll see you tomorrow."

A tear streaked down her friend's face, leaving Brennan at a loss. She knew she should offer comfort, knew it was expected behavior of a close friend. But how did you comfort someone when there was no comfort? Booth was dead. Was always going to be dead. You didn't get past that kind of loss – you just picked up and kept going, kept doing whatever needed to be done. Wanting to say something, though, before Angela turned away, she finally settled on, 'Perhaps Hodgins will go with you?"

Angela nodded and left, and Brennan felt a burst of anger. What did they want from her? Wild tears? She was already secretly ashamed of her loss of control in the shower the day before. There would be no repeats of such wastes of energy.

She turned back to her report.

Monday, 8PM

"Dr. Brennan?"

She'd been staring, unseeing, at her monitor for quite sometime – something she simply never did – when she heard Sweets' voice.

Momentarily confused, it took her a moment to find her voice. "Dr. Sweets."

"I was wondering how you're doing? How are you coping with the loss of Agent Booth?"

"I'm fine, Sweets. Why wouldn't I be? He was my partner. He is now deceased, something which happens to everyone eventually."

His expression confused her, because she couldn't immediately identify it., though she might almost have labeled it smug. But that couldn't be right. It certainly made no sense in the current context. A part of her mind that refused to be quiet noted that Booth would have understood the look – wasn't that point of their partnership, that he was better than she was at reading people?

"I see. That's very good. I would have expected no less, given your ability to compartmentalize, but please let me know if you need assistance during this …adjustment period."

"I will continue to be fine, Dr. Sweets." Hoping he'd take the hint and leave, she turned back to her report aware of an unreasonable irritation with him. Psychology was subjective and therefore not really a science, but the young doctor had always seemed harmless enough. She heard him walk away, and focused once more on her report. Work would help her settle. It always did.

Tuesday, 7AM

Still in her car, she stared through the windows of the diner at 'their' table. It was currently unoccupied.

After her reaction to Angela's innocent question about getting something to eat last night, what had made her think she'd be able to follow their semi-regular pattern and get coffee here this morning? She pinched the bridge of her nose. It just must be that after working at the lab until 2AM and then having trouble sleeping, she needed the caffeine more than usual. Yes, that was it.

But she couldn't face going into the diner to get it. Not when he wasn't going to join her. Perhaps it was an emotional response that she shouldn't indulge in – after all, the coffee was the same – but, no. She'd make do with the vending machine coffee at the Jeffersonian. And tomorrow, she'd make her own coffee before leaving home.

Tuesday, 6PM

"Tempe?"

Deeply involved in an article in the latest issue of one of her professional journals, it took a moment for her to process her father's voice. "Oh…Dad." She stared at the man standing in her office door, completely at a loss. He'd called her several more times over the past two days – calls she'd not returned because she didn't know what to say.

"I wanted to see how you're doing."

"I'm fine." The words were automatic now.

He stared at her, and she had one of her rare flashbacks to her childhood, to before the day he and her mother had vanished. To a moment where she'd lied, insisted she was fine when she wasn't, about some childish disaster, and had known he knew it for a lie.

Just as he knew she was lying now.

The thought of that completely unnerved her. "I'm fine, Dad," she repeated.

"Booth was—" he started to say, then changed his mind. "You were close. I know how much he mattered to you."

Her throat wanted to close, and she simply overruled it. "He was my partner," she said, her tone even.

He just kept his steady gaze on her, and more memories crowded into her mind. Of going to him for help in rescuing Booth, and of his doing so without hesitation – even knowing her partner would arrest him in a heartbeat. Of the respect he had for Booth, and vice versa, despite their differences. She looked away, blinked. When she looked back, the compassion in her father's face was nearly her undoing.

This time, she had to clear her throat. "I'm fine, Dad. What would be the point of being otherwise? He was my partner," she swallowed, "and yes, my friend. But he's dead, and nothing I can do will change that. I learned that a long time ago." At that, he finally looked away, and she gave into the weariness and dropped her head into her hand. She regretted hurting him, but it was true. Loss was loss, and she was handling Booth's death the way she'd handled every other loss she'd experienced since that December so long ago.

"I know," he said after a moment. Apparently accepting she wasn't going to invite him in, he walked over to stand next to her, anyway. "There's a difference, now, Tempe," he said softly, and rested his hand on her shoulder. "You're not alone this time."

For one insane moment, she wanted to turn to him and weep. But what would that accomplish? She'd given into the need for such comfort more than once with Booth, and where had that gotten her in the end? A growing belief that she wasn't alone, that he would be there for her…a trust that had once more proved false. He was gone, and she would not make that mistake, of leaning on someone, again.

So she pulled away from the hand on her shoulder and stood. Turning to her father, she said, "Thank you, Dad. But I'm fine." At his look, she amended it to, "I will be fine. Work helps."

He nodded slowly. "I remember that." He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but then stepped away, stepped back toward the door. "Call Russ when you get a minute. He's worried about you, too. He and Amy are coming up for the funeral."

Her mind went blank. "Funeral?"

Still speaking gently, as if he understood something she didn't, Max said, "Booth's funeral. Did you think we wouldn't come, knowing what he meant to you? Even if he hadn't died saving you?"

Funeral? She'd heard Cam and Angela discussing it, but had managed to ignore those details, like she'd ignored a great deal else. She had gathered that for some reason, the funeral was being delayed by nearly two weeks, and no one quite knew why. It hadn't seemed relevant to her, as she had no plans to go.

She still wasn't going, even if her father and brother were. But there was no need to announce that at the moment. Not when she only wanted her father to leave.

But he was still waiting for her to say something. Her brain scrambled around and finally settled on, "I'm certain Booth would appreciate the gesture." Either that, or he'd be struck by the irony of felons attending his funeral.

"He was a very good man," Max said. Stepping forward again, he leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Call if you need me. Call if there's anything I can do. And call your brother, Temperance."

Tuesday, 8PM

With the thoroughness and attention to detail that never wavered, Brennan signed off on the form she'd filled out about the remains of the latest victim from limbo. She was making progress, even given the large number of unidentified remains, mostly of soldiers from an earlier time. But none of them had provided any kind of challenge.

What now? She was alone, and the quiet of the lab appealed to her in a way the quiet of her apartment never did. She'd seen Dr Sweets earlier, watching her, but he'd not spoken to her – much to her relief.

Maybe it was time to begin that article she'd committed to do for the Journal of Forensic Science.

Deciding to check her email first, she opened the program, skimmed through the recent entries. Then paused.

Five minutes later, she was still sitting, staring out her door at the empty lab. China. Forty thousand year old remains. The offer from a former classmate would have been appealing anytime. But at the moment, it felt like a lifeline. Her contact was cleared by the Chinese authorities to be there for the next four months, and he was extending an open-ended offer for Brennan to join him, anytime. She only needed a visa.

Perhaps the Chinese consulate would expedite it. Immediately would work very well.