Piles of rough sketches lay forgotten in the garbage incinerator of the Jeffersonian Institute. They burned rapidly, hiding away any trace of the artist's talent, one whose talent no body would ever see or recognize. The fire blazed around the ashes, it destructive dance contained only by steel walls and the operators watchful eye.

Not even the operator saw the sketches that were lost forever, to him they were only paper balls resting, forgotten, at the bottom of a garbage can. There was nothing that would inspire him to pick up the paper balls, unfurl them and see the beauty that had been drawn across them. Nothing that would lead him to see the escape these drawings provided for the initials in the corner.

TB

Not that the initials would have meant anything to him anyway, statistically there are thousands of the people with the initials TB. So, in the pile of ashes lay TB's talent, hidden away from the world, only seen by the flames. TB compartmentalized, keeping everything separate from everything else. Rationalizing why she was detached is the only thing stopping her from letting down all boundaries and being free.

She knew she could never be free, she was too afraid of being hurt. She was to afraid that she would end up as the distraught fifteen year old girl again, to afraid that everyone important would leave, or be taken from her. She would never let anybody truly know her, she would always remain slightly detached. Always ready so that if the slightest whiff of danger came her way she could turn tail and retreat back into herself and her work.

Temperance Brennan, forever alone in a world where she doesn't need to be, forever scared but strong and also forever logical, intuitive, caring.

I'm not really sure what to think of this so, I'm going to call it my analysis of Brennan using the idea that she can not only write and ID bones line a madwomen but she can also draw.