Brennan was on the phone with a specialist before Booth had woken in the morning. She made an appointment without thinking twice about it. After she finished she placed her phone down on the kitchen counter. There she stared at it. What had been done to Booth to make him lose his voice? Did this mean he'd never speak again? She couldn't imagine never talking with him, never hearing his voice again.

She couldn't remember seeing any signs of trauma on his throat. Compared to the other evident abuse she was sure she would if there were any. His abductor had not been shy about leaving lasting marks. Once again a stab of rage stung her. If Booth's voice wasn't gone, and there was a way to help him, then it needed to be done. He needed to get talking. She recalled how fearful he'd been before he'd drifted off. How helpless. It wasn't the Booth she was used to seeing. At one time he'd been one of the strongest people she'd known. She was determined to help him find that man once again.

She was still standing in the kitchen when Booth wandered in, blurry eyed. Her eyes were drawn like a magnet to his neck. Just as she thought the skin there was one of the few untouched places. The only injury she could make out was the one by his collarbone. After she tore her examining eyes away she gave him a few pills and water. Again he showed reluctance in taking it. Now she understood why.

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"We're going to see an ENT doctor at noon."

Booth clearly was puzzled.

"A specialist. I know you can't talk, Booth. You're physically unable."

His expression cycled between anger and panic. Narrow eyed, he shook his head at her. No. I can't believe you did this. I can't believe you figured it out.

"Booth."

I'm not going. You can't know the truth. He strode away from the kitchen. No one can ever know. I can't take this. Why didn't she just kill me? Why don't I- He stopped and took a breath. No. You don't mean that. It's the drugs. The withdrawal. Damn it. He took himself to her window. Why does it have to be like this?

Brennan followed him. For a mere second she was ready to back down. If it really bothered him that much, then fine, they wouldn't go. But at the last moment she changed her mind. "You're going," she said, firmly. "You need help. If this doctor has some ideas then we're going to try it. You can't keep using this as an excuse not to go over what happened to you."

His frame tightened. He turned his back on her.

Brennan continued. "The police will never be able to catch him if you don't cooperate."

Her. And I can't tell anyone about any of it because I don't know! I don't even know if I could find my way back.

Sensing she wasn't going to get any further, Brennan backed off.

Booth resisted her every step of the way. She did everything but bend his arm to get him to leave with her for the appointment. Then she had trouble getting him out of the car once they arrived. He was mad, but it seemed like his anger stemmed from another emotion. Fear. But that made no sense to her. What was there to be afraid of?

During the exam he was clearly uncomfortable. At times he didn't like what was being done, and he let them know it. More than once he pushed the doctor's hand away. His eyes darkened considerably.

Test after test was performed. Hours passed by. Booth found himself getting restless. The pills were wearing off, and he was craving more. Much more. Enough to send him into a catatonic state. He inhaled, exhaling slowly. Over and over again he had to remind himself that his mind wasn't his. It was being influenced. But what if it wasn't? He tilted his head to look at Brennan.

She caught his eyes and smiled back at him. It only made him all the more sad. How can I do this to her? What will happen to her when she finds out what I did? Yet again he found himself wishing for death. He laid down and shut his eyes.

Brennan tip toed out, seeking a soda, when his doctor stopped her in the hall. "This is actually a good place to talk. Sometimes with survivors talking about things that were done can be a trigger."

"He doesn't need that."

"No." The doctor's gaze turned sympathetic. "All signs, all tests point to a burn in his throat."

Brennan gasped, feeling herself nearly bowled over. "How?"

"It appears to be a chemical burn. Some sort of corrosive."

"…Like he was forced to drink something?"

"Precisely."

Down into a nearby chair she sank. "What can we do for him?"

"The good news is his vocal chords are in tact. We can treat this. I'm going to send you home with some prescriptions, as well as a coated drink that should soothe the pain. It doesn't taste the greatest, but it should help. Within a few days you should encourage him to talk, to strengthen his voice."

Brennan nodded. Numbly she thanked the doctor. He left with a promise to return with all she would need for his treatment. Somehow Brennan floated her way back into Booth's room. The drink was forgotten in her haze of shock. With each step she became more and more upset. Tears blurred her vision. How could someone be so cruel? Especially to him?

In his room he was still sleeping on the exam table. Periodically his body trembled. She needed to get him home and give him another dose. Before she woke him, however, she crept to his side. Up close she could see the faintest marks of healed blisters on his lips. He'd most definitely been forced to drink something. There was a sobbing sound, and Brennan didn't realize it was her until it was out.

Booth woke instantly. He blinked up at her. There's no turning back now.

"He made you… drink?" She choked out.

She thinks I was forced to do this. I should lie. I should go with it. She doesn't need to know the truth. Looking up in her eyes though made him think twice. He'd just have to stall this off for as long as he could. And so he made no indication either way.

His stoic composure bothered her more. "We can go home."

With treatment in hand Brennan drove them home in silence. Inside the apartment she went straight into her bedroom to be alone. Booth sat down in front of the window to keep watch. Although as his depression worsened his paranoia decreased. So what if "she" caught him? Did it really matter anymore?

Bit by bit he was beginning to lose control.