Booth had never been a distance runner, not really. He wasn't built for it, and he'd never been able to lose himself in that runner's high that others spoke of. So why was it that he'd spent the majority of his free time over the past few weeks pounding the pavement? He'd started at the shooting range, seeking the preternatural calm that he'd always found with a target in his sights, the feeling of cold competence. But he'd felt heat instead—the disturbingly sick urge to dig that fucker back out of the ground he'd been buried in and sink a few more rounds in him just to hear the thwok thwok thwok of bullets lodging in flesh. Whatever flesh was left on that evil bastard by now, anyway. Disgusted by his own thoughts, worried at how reasonable his twisted fantasy had started to seem, he'd left the range and laced on his running shoes instead.

The crisp rhythm of his stride hitting the sidewalk kept metronome time to his thoughts. His breath puffed dense little clouds in the quickly-chilling autumn air. The last time he'd seen Bones, they had walked through the rose garden in front of the Jeffersonian, harried and bickering over the details of a case. Neither of them had stopped to notice the saturated green of the August grass, or heard the cadence of bees, or felt the bathwater mellowness of the summer air. Now, a whole season seemed to have passed since he'd seen her. He wondered suddenly if they ever let her go outside.

Pausing at a crosswalk to wait for the light, he raised his arms over his head to open his lungs and sucked oxygen grimly. A heavy ache spread around his ribcage, and his fingers felt swollen from swinging by his sides for so long. But he never got tired, he could never run far enough. He steered himself home only when the rational dictates of obligation required it. Get home, get enough sleep to get through another day, be home in time to pick Parker up and have enough energy to muster a fake smile for his son. And then run again. Set out from home and push towards any horizon line and just keep going in an attempt to finally chase down exhaustion.

The manic exercise and lack of favorite dinner companion had started to show on his body. His muscular bulk had been winnowed down to the leanness of a much younger man, his arms sinewy, his stomach razor-flat. But truth to tell, he hadn't really noticed. He wasn't noticing a lot of things these days. He'd told himself initially that it would get easier in time, and made bargains with himself. Like if he could just get through three more days without completely losing it, things would surely be better. And yet, each day seemed worse than the previous one. His grieving process hadn't progressed much beyond disbelief. Denial of what had happened to his partner, of what had happened to him. Mutilating guilt for not finding her sooner, for not protecting her in the first place, for ever tempting her out of academia and into his dangerous world in the first place. And even—in the quiet hours he spent waiting for sleep—anger at her. For imagining him of all people as her attacker. For being so smart and yet somehow stupid enough to ever think he would hurt her. Hallucinations, psychological collapse, etcetera etcetera. And yet. Part of him was so angry that she believed he was capable of raising a single finger against her. She should know better.

But she hadn't been rational then, so it would be irrational to apply logic to the situation, a certain empiricist's voice reminded him in his mind. He could never blame her anyway, not really. Couldn't punish her after what she'd endured. But, he reminded himself as he lunged into a steep incline that stung his legs with satisfying brutality, he could punish himself. So he did, his long strides swallowing whole sections of sidewalk as the ground blurred into a gray river flowing beneath him. He pushed himself harder, his feet hitting the earth with bruising force, his lungs screaming for oxygen. He pushed relentlessly until he found himself at Bones' apartment, the dim torchierres flanking the front door invitingly. He hadn't planned to come here, hadn't had any reason to visit the place that had lost its meaning in her absence. It was just a building now, a bunch of bricks.

Or not quite, he realized, idly tracing the wrought iron scrollwork on the front door. It still held all her things. It might still, he hoped, feel like her. Without hesitation, he retrieved the hidden key and let himself in, closing the door quietly after.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but he hadn't expected this: this feeling of crushing familiarity, of missing her so damn much to hit him this hard. Her books, her artwork, her coffee mug unrinsed in the sink, the scent of her shampoo still lingering on the bath towel. He moved through the apartment like a ghost, fingertips trailing reverently behind him, trying to absorb her essence. He stopped at the bookshelf, her face drawing him from one of the framed photographs she kept there. She was bathed in sunlight, dirt-smeared but radiant in what Zach had called her eco-warrior gear. She rested one arm lightly on the shoulders of an elderly woman. Her expression captivated him, the brave tilt of her chin as she stared the camera down, looking like some martyred saint from the crusades. Guatemala.

He lifted the photo to look more closely, his eyes caressing the precious details of her face. He knew the vague idea of what she'd survived on that trip—of the near-death experience that somehow hadn't broken her spirit. She was so tough, so resilient, with a tenaciousness belying her fragile appearance. A diamond.

He rushed across the room to her phone, and dialed the Bureau operator to get forwarded to Sweets' home number. He paced as he waited for the psychologist to pick up, still gripping the photo desperately.

"…llo?" a voice answered groggily.

"Sweets!" he barked, "wake up. I need to ask you something about Bones."

He heard a slow intake of breath on the other end of the line as Sweets snapped to life. "Agent Booth, I told you this afternoon—I don't have any news. Dr. Brennan is in good hands, and she's healing right now. What you need to do is—"

"That's the thing. They shouldn't let her heal, do you understand? They should make her fight—she's a fighter."

"I don't follow…"

"She needs to… I don't know… she has to…" the idea that had seized him with its clarity just moments before now shimmered maddeningly out of reach, suddenly vague and unformed and uncertain. He realized suddenly how crazy he sounded, how tired. Frowning deeply, he let the phone slide down his jaw.

"…ent Booth?" Sweets' voice issued tinny and distant from the slipping phone.

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm sorry I woke you. I thought I had an idea, but I… I guess I don't," Booth said dejectedly.

"Can I ask you something?" Sweets paused. "Why are you calling me from Dr. Brennan's home?"

"Forget I called," Booth growled, slamming the phone down. He swiped his hand over his eyes in weariness. He was really starting to slip. If he didn't watch it, he'd find himself benched, and then he'd have even more hours of the day to spend flagellating himself for failing his partner. And missing her. He raised the photo to his lips and dropped a chaste kiss onto the glass before letting himself back out into the autumn night. He had a long run ahead of him, and he intended to feel every single hideous, tortuous step.