Knowing she was too weak to stand for extended periods of time, Brennan slid down the pristine white tiles encasing her shower stall, sitting gingerly on the floor and letting the water rain down on her. True to her word, Angela had made sure that she was allocated a private, en suite room. Everything around her was gleaming, illuminated by the harsh overhead lighting found only in hospitals. She was relieved to see that there was no evidence of the room's former occupant – everything had been cleaned, meticulously so, but the brightness of it all nevertheless made her wince. She had been worried that the stream of water would be feeble, repressed by a build up of limescale, but it seemed the cleaners hadn't neglected their duties in this respect, either. The water pounded onto her, cascading over her aching muscles, and she fought the urge to cry out when the powerful torrent made contact with the sizeable lump on the back of her head.

For several minutes, Brennan didn't move, her eyes were fixed intently on the water seeping down the plughole. It was the colour of muted crimson, and only when it began to run clear did she reach for the toiletries that Angela had brought from the hospital shop. She picked up the sponge, wishing it were a pumice stone, and coated it with a generous helping of fragrant body wash. It had a fresh, citrus tang, and smelt strangely soothing. Her epidermis began to glow a bright pink under the onslaught of hot water and ferocious scrubbing, but the pain eventually became too intense for her to continue. Her breasts were too tender, her limbs were too tired, and she had no choice but to sit perfectly still until she recuperated from her exertions.

Her skin had started to wrinkle and pucker from prolonged immersion, but she wasn't finished yet. She picked up the shampoo, wondering how a small bottle could feel heavier than a dumbbell. Her brunette tresses were matted with dried blood – it felt as though she had dispensed a whole canister of gel into her hair, and even though her arms were screaming with the effort, she washed it six times before she was even vaguely satisfied with the results. She massaged her skull vigorously, heedless of the bump on her head. It actually helped to relieve some of the tension, although it promptly returned when she realised that the bottle was now empty. She reached for the conditioner instead, and ran a brand new comb through her knotted hair, oblivious to the tears that began to stream down her cheeks. She should have become accustomed to the pain by now.

Next came the face wash. It contained both witch hazel and tea tree oil, and her lip began to sting violently when she first applied it. For one horrifying moment, she had an all-too-vivid flashback of her assailant's tongue in her mouth, and now she reached for the toothbrush and toothpaste, removing them from their packaging with shaking hands. The bristles were firm at first, but they soon acquiesced to her frenzied brushing. She was making her gums bleed and the metallic taste was a ghastly reminder of the lengths she had been forced to go to when fighting for her freedom. She scoured her tongue until she nearly gagged, and then ploughed her way through half a bottle of Listerine. Her mouth was burning, her eyes were watering, but finally she felt as though she had rid herself of his vile taste.

Ten minutes later, Brennan emerged from the shower stall, leaning against the sink to steady herself. Her eyes slowly travelled upwards and she stared at her ghostly reflection in the expansive mirror. It was like New Orleans all over again, only now the bruising was more extensive. His fingerprints were etched on her jaw, four dark brown bruises on the right hand side of her cheek, one solitary bruise on the left. There were blotches of yellow, green and purple scattered around her right cheekbone, and her eye had swollen shut in sympathy. A scab had formed on her upper lip, and her attacker's teeth marks were evident on the lower one. She briefly contemplated whether she should take a few steps backwards and examine the damage he had inflicted below her neck, but something told her that was something she just didn't want to see.

Instead, she towel-dried her hair and slipped on her hospital gown, feeling achingly alone. She knew Angela, Hodgins and Zach were in the waiting room, desperate to offer her their support, but she also knew that the one person who truly had the capacity to comfort her was no where to be seen. Brennan had intentionally driven Booth away, knowing that it was the best thing for both of them in the long run, but it didn't change the fact that, right now, she would have given anything to be enveloped in his arms. Though she would never admit it to anyone but herself, somewhere along the line, they had become her safe haven.

She crawled into the freshly made bed, beyond exhaustion. She wished she could just fall asleep - to forget if nothing else - but her eyes remained open and fixed on the ceiling, because she knew that, as soon as she shut them, she would be transported right back to that room again.

She was dozing, somewhere between the realms of consciousness and fitful sleep, when a light knock sounded at her door. She visibly jumped, and willed her heart to stop its erratic pounding. She wasn't sure whether to feel relief or disappointment when a stout Nurse popped her head around the doorframe.

"How are you doing, honey?"

Brennan frowned at the inanity of the enquiry and was tempted to ignore her completely, but her curiosity was piqued when she noticed the wad of paper the Nurse was holding in her oversized hands. "I'm fine," she responded curtly, sitting up. "What do you want?"

The thought of being subjected to yet more poking and prodding was far from appealing. It had taken all of Brennan's persuasive powers to prevent them from strapping up her ribs, an unnecessary procedure that would have only served to inhibit her range of movement further.

The Nurse gave her an apologetic smile, entering the room with what appeared to be trepidation. "Sorry, honey, did I wake you? I told your friend that you were probably sleeping, but he insisted that I give you this letter. He said I had to stay here until I was sure that you were actually reading it…"The Nurse was somewhat intimidated by the heated scowl that had formed on her patient's battered face – "But I'm more than happy to leave you to your own devices." She handed Brennan the letter, and watched her patient's face noticeably soften when she recognised the handwriting.

"Booth wrote me a letter?" The question was rhetorical, but the Nurse instantly perceived the transformation in Brennan's tone. The brunette no longer sounded quite so jaded; her voice was laced with something else – hope?

The Nurse had been poised to leave, but now she hesitated, wanting to offer this obstinate woman – whose pride was clearly her own worst enemy - some words of consolation. "Your friend – well, he looked pretty upset. He obviously cares about you a lot. Are you sure you don't want me to send him in on my way out? He seems to think that you won't see him, but…"

Brennan was clearly affected by her words, but she shook her head vehemently. "No, thank you. He's right. I don't want to see him."

"Are you sure?"

"What part of 'no' don't you understand?"

The prickly exterior was back with a vengeance, and the Nurse knew better than to push the issue. "OK, Dr Brennan, I won't ask again. I'll leave you to get some rest now."

"Thank you."

Brennan's hands were trembling as she unfolded the wad of paper. Her name had been written on the top of it in Booth's unmistakeable scrawl. 'Temperance.' He had called her by her full name several times that night, as though 'Bones' was too frivolous to fit the situation. She liked it, but she simultaneously hoped that it wouldn't become a force of habit for him, because, truth be told, she rather liked the fact that Booth had a pet name for her.

The sense of dazed numbness that had settled over her since arriving at the hospital five hours ago slowly began to subside. As always, Booth had elicited a myriad of emotions within her. The thickness of the document terrified her. How could a man who protested about filling in one simple form have written fourteen pages of manuscript in a single sitting? She could see that his hand had been cramping with the effort; his emboldened script had visibly deteriorated as the letter progressed.

Then she noticed the prominent tear stain, and felt her stomach plummet in response. For one heart-stopping second, she wondered if this was a goodbye note, if her temperamental nature had finally pushed her partner over the edge and out of her life for good. She took a deep breath, which somehow evolved into a sob. Surely he wouldn't do that to her? Not after everything she'd been through today?

And so, even though she was terrified of what the letter's contents might hold - even though her first instinct had been to place it on her bedside table and deal with it in the morning - if at all, she forced her one good eye to focus on the opening paragraph. And then she began to read.