Author's Note: Success! :) I was able to clear out enough time to get this chapter out there. I hope everyone enjoys this update and has a great holiday weekend. :D
I do not own Bones or any of its characters.
Thank you to everyone who is reading/following/reviewing this. It is always appreciated.
Rankor01: Thank you for your reply to my comments from before. :) I sometimes worry about being a little too leading with my prose, but like you, I hate it when authors throw things into a story from out of the blue which make no sense whatsoever. I firmly believe in writing my fics in such a way so that my readers can follow the path of my story without being blindsided by illogical plot twists...I've always thought that Brennan's comments and actions in Mayhem were very telling in how she feels about Sweets: despite her heckling (which is frequent in this episode), there is a lot of caring there. The TDitP episode from this last season finally confirmed my suspicions that Sweets recognizes this and that he deeply cares about her as well. As I get more comfortable writing for Brennan, I've discovered that I love exploring the dynamic between the two of them...And you are also right in suspecting that things are building to a climax...
Daryl Ann: Thank you. Believe me, I am enjoying the chance to update a little more often right now...even though I'm certain that that will change soon.
Fearlee: Sadly, I don't think you'll be much happier by the end of this chapter. But just so you'll know, things will start to turn around again very very soon.
ASummer: Thank you for the review. As I was drafting the previous chapter, it occurred to me that much of what Brennan had to say could be applied to Sweets and thus I decided to write it from that perspective. Again, I'm thrilled that everyone seems IC and vivid to you. I confess that I sometimes try to imagine each chapter as a scene from an actual episode in my mind before I write to see if it feels like a moment from Bones or not. So it's always gratifying to me that others can do the same. I hope you enjoy this update.
AnneWentworth: I agree that there is more than bickering between Sweets and Brennan. And I find that I enjoy the idea of Booth and Peter hanging out together. I think they could be good friends considering how much they have in common...that is if they learn to not let their similarities cause friction. :)
D: I actually envisioned Sweets lying back against his bed with the bed itself raised in a more upright position. I see now that I should have made that a little more clear...Your chair analogy is a good one, I think and I agree with your comment about Wyatt being a master carpenter when it comes to mending complicated relationships. :)
Rex01: Thank you. :D As much as I'm partial to Sweets/Booth moments on the show, I will admit to also having a soft spot for Sweets/Brennan. I kind of see Sweets as the middle ground between B&B and thus, I believe that Brennan and Sweets also have much in common even if they won't always acknowledge it...I tend to agree with one of my psychology professors who told me once that figuring out oneself is a difficult challenge even with psychological training...and thus Sweets is not immune. :) But fortunately he has some very smart friends to help him along.
Softballgirl05: Thank you for the review. :) I agree that both Brennan and Sweets and Booth and Peter have far more in common with each other than what might appear on the surface. These commonalities can cause friction at times, but can also create strong friendships. And yes, Wyatt is simply amazing IMO. I love having him around in this one. :)
The Measure of the Spirit—Chapter 35
The next day, Sweets ended up spending a couple of hours, during the afternoon, alone, and he was pleased with this turn of events.
It gave him the solitude he needed to do what he knew had to be done.
Brennan spent most of the afternoon and evening on the previous day with Sweets until Doctor Werner showed up to check up on his condition. After she finished examining him and going over his charts, the therapist asked her for the chance to shower and shave, having felt unkempt and dirty for the last couple of days. Eager to help him feel more comfortable, Werner made arrangements for a nurse to come to his room to assist him.
The short walk into the bathroom proved to be an arduous one as this was the first time Sweets had left his bed since arriving at the hospital. His legs shook as he hobbled about, the nurse helping to hold him up with one arm while the other tried to use one of the crutches he had been provided with. He eventually made it there, but was mortified to discover that he needed the nurse's help to remove his gown and his bandages and to prepare him for his shower. She detached his IV line, while still leaving in the cannula, and placed a plastic sleeve over his cast so that it wouldn't get wet. Fortunately, there was a seat within the shower stall itself, so Sweets was able to insist on some privacy once he was ready to go in.
The nurse left the room and the psychologist looked at himself in the mirror, shocked at what he saw.
His face was pale and gaunt, the only color being the large, dark circles under his eyes and the stubble that was growing in on his cheeks. His torso still had numerous angry, red marks from where he had been burned, and his ribs were starting to show. Instinctively, he reached for his shoulders when a new thought hit him. Terrified of what he would find, but unable to stop himself from looking, Sweets picked up a small hand mirror from the sink and turned his back toward the larger mirror on the wall. He saw the familiar scars he had had for most of his life along with new ones…identical ones…that were still healing and that looked permanent.
"Mr. Sweets? Are you all right in there?" the nurse asked as she slapped at the door.
"I'm fine," he choked out as he put the mirror back and the counter and turned the water on in the shower. He stumbled inside quickly after that, caring little about the temperature of the water.
As he went through the motions of cleaning himself, Sweets sniffed and hiccuped several times, but no tears fell. Every torture that Andrew had inflicted on him was re-played in his mind as he traced his hands along his body. The fresh wounds and scars acted as tangible reminders of the nightmare he had recently been through and now Sweets was thoroughly convinced that they would force him to relive those memories for the rest of his life. Jensen had once again managed to leave his mark on him, branding him as broken and steeped in darkness.
The psychologist finished washing himself, and the water turned frigid, but he did not move from where he sat. He was actually longing for the release that crying could give, but was horrified to discover that he couldn't bring himself to shed even one tear. All of his emotions, other than fear, were starting to feel leaden and atrophied.
It suddenly occurred to Sweets that the nurse might wonder about how long he was taking, and he started to breathe deeply in an attempt to swallow down his tears.
"Mr. Sweets, are you almost finished?"
"I'm coming out now," Sweets shouted back, shivering as he turned off the water. He was able to grab a towel and cover himself minimally before she burst into the room. The nurse assisted him out of the stall and proceeded to help him dry off and re-dressed his ribs and back. She then accompanied him on his wobbly walk back to the bed.
Unwilling to look her in the eye by this point, Sweets turned his gaze upward while she applied shaving cream to his face and ran a razor along his cheeks. During one of the times that she turned away to rinse the blade, Sweets swiftly grabbed one of the other razors from her kit and concealed it into the folds of his sheets. The nurse soon finished, thankfully leaving him with no nicks or cuts. After she left, the therapist ran a hand along his face, satisfied that he felt a little more like his former self, appearance-wise at least.
Sweets sat up and pulled and tissue wrapped bundle from under his pillow. He unwrapped it and stared at the razor nestled inside, his fingers stroking the plastic handle.
After his shower was over, Sweets was concerned about getting to sleep. Even with someone else in the room, the therapist still suffered from nightmares that usually made him cry out in his sleep, scream himself awake, and even urinate in his bed. He had been able to hide the last symptom while they still had him attached to a catheter, but earlier that day they had removed it and Sweets was concerned about what might happen when he tried to rest.
Before Hodgins could show up to stay with him, Sweets begged Werner for some more sedatives under the guise of trying to get additional sleep, but she had been wary of administering them. The doctor eventually relented under the conditions that they be used sparingly and that he would have to eat at least half of what he was given from this point on. The therapist agreed and another tray of food was brought in minutes later.
Sweets made a grand show of eating a couple of bites in front of the nurse, but the moment she left, he shuffled his way to the bathroom and scraped half of what was on his plate into the toilet. The effort left him shaking from exertion by the time he made it back to his bed, but he hoped that it would have the desired effect.
Werner returned about thirty minutes later and, satisfied with the amount of food that was missing from his plate, she went ahead and gave the psychologist a sedative, but made a mental note to inform Wyatt of what she was doing.
Hodgins showed up not long after the drug started to take effect. The entomologist appeared concerned, but Sweets didn't spend much time thinking about that. All he cared about at that point was the chance to spend a few more hours lost in a fog of detached, senseless nothingness. A small rational voice inside him pointed out that resorting to drugs to numb emotional pain was not healthy, but Sweets found that he could ignore that voice after a while. For the most part. Instead he focused on the fact that he would probably end up having a dreamless slumber, something that almost made him smile.
Sweets stopped moving his fingers along the handle and picked the razor up, clenching it in his fist. He then smashed it against the side of his bed, cracking the plastic in several places. The psychologist tore at the jagged edges of the razor head and was able to liberate one of the blades from its casing. Sweets wrapped the rest of the pieces up into a tissue and threw them into the wastebasket beside his bed. He cupped the blade into his palms and held it up close to his chest, watching the light glint along the edges.
The therapist had ended up getting almost five hours of sleep, but the sedatives wore off quicker than he expected. He started to dream and those dreams swiftly became nightmares. He woke up with a strangled cry in his throat and a humiliating wetness in his sheets. He was marginally grateful that he hadn't managed to stain the comforter that Brennan had given him, but that did not lessen the embarrassment he felt in having to ask a nurse for a change in his bedding with Hodgins sitting nearby. Even worse, the dampness and the acidic smell reminded him of when he was trapped in that basement with Jensen, confined to a bed and forced to lie in his own urine.
The nurses had been quick and discreet in cleaning up the mess, and Hodgins had been careful not to speak about what had just happened while trying to deflect attention away from it by telling Sweets about a case that was developing at the lab.
But none of that could slow the growth of the gaping hole that continued to build inside him.
The therapist spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, unwilling to speak or move. He tried to listen to the words that Hodgins was telling him as a way to distract himself from his own thoughts, but to his horror, his thoughts were becoming increasing confused and jumbled. The only thing that was consistent was the sound of Andrew's laughter mocking him.
Sweets continued to play with the razor blade in his fingers, flipping it around and around. He thought again about yesterday and all the days since he had woken up from his coma and saw no relief in sight for the physical, mental and spiritual pain that he felt.
Decision made, the psychologist grasped the blade between his fingers and moved the sheets away from his left leg. He then lifted his gown, exposing his thigh and placed a finger near the location of the femoral artery.
'One cut…that's all I'll need,' he thought. 'One cut and that will be it. No one's supposed to be here for at least an hour, and I'll bleed out in moments. Then I'll be free: of Andrew, of the pain, of the emptiness. One cut…and this nightmare will finally be over.'
Sweets placed the blade against his skin at the point he had marked with his finger, but hesitated, his hands starting to shake. He tried taking deep breaths and repositioning the razor, but could not bring himself to follow through with it.
'Go on,' Andrew's voice taunted. 'Do it. Just one cut. Or are you too scared? Too scared to stop being selfish and do what you should have done years ago? Why won't you do the honest thing for once in your life? Admit that you have no more right to survive than I did.'
'Yes,' Sweets thought, his hand finally steady. 'Andrew was right. I'm no different than him. He hurt so many people. So have I. This needs to end here.'
He closed his eyes and started to press the blade against his flesh when a loud clap caught his attention. Startled, his eyes flew open, and he dropped the razor onto the bed. He looked around for the source of the sound, but was surprised to find the room empty.
Sweets then glanced down at the floor and saw that one of the framed photographs Angela had placed in his room had fallen, face first, onto the floor. Straining, he leaned over the side of the bed and dragged the frame toward him with his fingertips. Once it was close enough, he picked it up, amazed that the glass hadn't shattered or even cracked.
The psychologist reclined back in his bed and held the picture close to him. It was a photo of him as a child, sitting between David and Carolyn.
Sweets' hands started to shake again as he stared at the picture. Even though it had been years, he could still remember the day this photo was taken.
It had been right around his eighth birthday, his first as a Sweets. David had decided to go all out for the occasion and, in additional to the private birthday party the three of them had which included numerous presents, he arranged for them to take a weekend trip to DC. There they visited several monuments and attractions, including ironically enough, the Jeffersonian.
At one point they were standing by the Lincoln memorial, and Carolyn managed to get another visiting family to take a picture of the three of them together, the picture Sweets was holding now. After it was over, they went to a nearby bench, and both of his parents took turns embracing him.
"I hope you are enjoying your birthday, baby," Carolyn said, kissing his temple as she let him go. "We wanted it to be special because we are so happy that you are part of our family."
"I am," Lance grinned. "It's been great."
"Good," David grinned back at him as he pulled his son close. "I want you to remember this Lance. Remember how you felt today and how much your mother and I love you."
"I will, Dad," Lance said, his tone serious. "Forever and ever."
"That's right sport," his father nodded. "Forever and ever. Now let's go check out the Jeffersonian. There's some stuff there that I know you'll enjoy."
Sweets felt his eyes grow moist, but he still could not cry. He focused on that memory and had a hazy recollection come to him about being with his father recently while he still was in a coma.
'Remember, we will always be with you…'
Suddenly, the psychologist looked down at the razor and picked it up while still holding onto the picture with his other hand. He thought back to when he was a teenager and had attempted suicide before. As bad as the days leading up to that were, they couldn't compare to the anguish Sweets felt at seeing the sorrow he had caused his parents. He eventually apologized to them for his actions, and David had made him promise to never do such a thing ever again.
Sweets looked again at the razor and sniffled as he realized how close he came to breaking that promise.
The therapist sat the picture down and grabbed some more tissues from his stand so he could wrap the razor into a neat bundle which he sat under his watch. He then picked the picture back up, cradling it close and laid back down on his side, curling up into a fetal position.
'Mom, Dad, I'm sorry,' he thought. 'I'm sorry that I…'
Sweets gripped the frame and closed his eyes. He knew that he wouldn't be able to kill himself, but he was also faced with the reality that he was rapidly losing the will to live. His mind raced as he tried to figure out what to do, his thoughts swirling about and fading before he could get any sort of firm hold on them.
Brennan walked back into the room with another stack of journals on her arm, but Sweets hardly noticed. He was already lost within his own desperate search for any kind of solution.
Later that evening, Wyatt walked into the psychologist's room and was disturbed by what he saw.
Sweets had his bed upright while still in a reclining position and was staring at a wall, alone. There were beads of sweat forming on his brow, and his eyes had an unnatural shine to them. The chef suspected that that was a combination of unshed tears, fear and a slight fever starting to form. Those eyes were starting to look sunken above cheek bones that were too clearly defined and surrounding by skin that was a sickly pale grey in tone.
But what struck Wyatt the most were the therapist's hands: fidgeting at a near constant rate, fingers clasping and unclasping when they were picking at his blankets and gown. The former psychiatrist was certain that this was not simply a nervous habit, but a symptom of a deeper problem.
Wyatt paused by the door, working to maintain a neutral but cordial expression on his face. He was aware that confronting a gifted psychologist like Sweets was bound to be difficult despite his own considerable talents. There were precious few approaches and tactics that Sweets would not be thoroughly versed in himself, and the way he read others was frequently uncanny.
But Wyatt had never backed down from a patient…or a friend…who needed his help before and he wasn't about to start now.
"Good evening Doctor Sweets," he said as he entered the room. "Doctor Werner mentioned that you wanted to see me."
"Thank you for coming," Sweets replied, his voice devoid of any emotion. Wyatt nodded and pulled up a chair so that he could sit across from the therapist.
"Now, what may I do for you on this occasion?" the chef asked. Sweets hesitated, his fidgeting becoming more animated for a moment before he took a deep breath to calm himself. Sweets then reached into the folds of his sheets and pulled out something that was wrapped in tissues. He held it out and placed it carefully into Wyatt's palm. Wyatt glanced at the bundle and at Sweets before he slowly unwrapped the tissues to find a razor blade inside. The chef blinked hard at the discovery, but displayed no other reaction. Instead he looked back up at Sweets and waited in silence, determined to allow the psychologist a chance to explain himself.
"Don't worry, I didn't try anything and there won't be others," Sweets said, sensing the other man's thoughts. "I'm giving this to you so that…so that I can stop thinking about it."
"Well that is reassuring," Wyatt said as he re-wrapped the blade and gingerly placed it into one of his coat pockets. "But I'm afraid that statement isn't enough to ameliorate my concerns."
"What do you mean?" Sweets said, narrowing his eyes.
"Doctor Sweets, let me propose a hypothetical situation to you," Wyatt replied. "I have a friend: exceedingly bright fellow with a generous heart. Unfortunately, he's recently been through a horrendous trauma and is still in the process of recovering from it."
Sweets sank further into his bed. He remained silent, but his chocolate eyes started to turn black with repressed rage.
"This young friend of mine, he's not eating, he's not getting enough rest, and he's done everything he can to pull away from his family, all of whom care about him deeply," Wyatt continued. "Recently, I have come across evidence that leads me to suspect that he is also self-medicating in an attempt to deal with his distress."
Wyatt watched as the therapist's hands balled up into fists, his fingers bunching up the sheets as they clenched tight.
"If this was one of your patients, what sorts of opinions or theories might you formulate?" Wyatt asked.
"I wouldn't have any," Sweets said coolly. "Not enough data. Perhaps he had suffered other traumas in the past, and that is affecting him now. Or perhaps he has his reasons for withdrawing from his family. Who's to say how close they really are to him? And a suspicion of self-medicating is not a useable fact."
Sweets scooted himself up and glared at the chef.
"I know that as a former psychiatrist, you are aware of the danger of jumping to too many conclusions," the therapist said.
"I am," Wyatt conceded. "But years of experience have also taught me how to recognize the peril in allowing indecision and a need for a perfect evaluation to paralyze me from preventing a patient or a friend from damaging themselves beyond repair."
Sweets closed his eyes, his knuckles turning white as he pushed his fists into the mattress.
"Stop…just stop this," Sweets spat. "I told you that there wouldn't be any more actions like…like that. Why can't you let it go at that?"
"Why on earth do you think I should?" Wyatt asked, slightly incredulous. "You may have eliminated any immediate suicidal thoughts, but the fact remains that you are not addressing the underlying causes for them."
"Are you saying that I don't know my own mind? Or that I can't handle this myself?" Sweets replied, a challenge evident in his voice.
"I'm saying that you have suffered a terrible experience," Wyatt answered calmly. "That along with hunger, lack of sleep and injuries that you're still recovering from, may be making it extremely problematic for you to maintain an unbiased judgment or to think rationally."
Sweets' eyes flew open, and he opened his mouth to reply, but stopped himself just as he started to form words. Instead he took another deep breath and opened his hands. As his fingers went back to their nervous dance, resignation settled into his eyes.
"You're right," the therapist said. "I can't go on this way. That is why I called you here. I need your help."
"Right. So where do you want to start?"
"I know that you are no longer a practicing psychiatrist, but you worked in the field for years," Sweets continued. "I know that you're still respected among your peers, and that you still have many contacts."
The psychologist pulled himself up to sit completely upright in bed and leaned toward Wyatt.
"I'm not sure if I can trust myself anymore," Sweets said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Therefore, I need to be institutionalized. And I need you to help me find the right place and to put me in touch with people who can make that happen."