Guess who's finished their MA? And now has more time to write? Thank you for holding on, here's a chunky one to apologise.

TW: Suicide. Disclaimer: I don't own Bones.

Two nights passed, full of sex and bad dreams.

Brennan felt like her cup would never be full. She'd felt better after talking to Booth in those empty offices, but the moment they got home, words weren't enough. Pressed up against the door, groaning want you, Booth couldn't hold her any closer. Pulling and pushing at each other's clothes, they'd collapsed onto the bed. The floor had been surprisingly good that morning, but it wasn't as comfortable. Brennan cupped his face with her hands, drawing him in, tongues meeting in a way that sent shivers up Booth's neck and into his skull. He hurried to get as close to her as possible, desperate to join together, but was distracted by the smallest things. The smooth porcelain of her neck begged to be kissed, her jaw next, then her collarbones, her breasts. He skimmed his hands across her rib cage, panting. His breath tickled her ever so slightly, raising goosebumps. Then his leg pressed between hers. An explosion of heat caught Brennan by surprise, and she cried out, impatient, always impatient. Needing more than she could ever get.

Then, night. They slept, sated, Booth curled around her like a cloak on her back. The dreams that followed were murky. Faces with inky black cobwebs that misted white the longer she looked, bleaching the features underneath. Brennan sought them out, asking them who they were, why they had followed her. Who are you? What do you want? No answers. Just cavernous mouths with black spiders pouring out. Her own mouth, full of someone else's teeth. A small medallion glinted in her hand. She brought it to her face, finding her vision was blurring, and she couldn't hold her hands still. It was the St Christopher medal that hung around Booth's neck. Somehow, Brennan knew that it had been taken from a decapitated head.

One dream turned into another until light bled into the room. She awoke to another day, hurting and frightened. Booth saw and tried to kiss it away. She thanked him, clutching at him in the morning light as they moved together, ignoring everything outside of the space between them. He hoped she felt how much she was loved, how he struggled to keep control when she held his gaze, trailing her fingers down his jaw. She tugged at his hair, short, shallow breaths as she spoke his name in a hoarse whisper. Ecstasy between them, all around them, as day broke outside.

The day passed slowly for Brennan. Her frustration with herself grew, hiding in her office, the glass door closed to deter any visitors. She texted Angela to see if she was okay and still pregnant and then tried, in vain, to work on her book. When that failed, she escaped to the bone room, hoping to make progress on some of her older case files. Older bones that were not necessarily victims of anything, just bones that were found, that only she could identify. Her old job had given her so much. It had been enough then, a substitute for everything she lacked. Now, it was just a facet of her life. It was less than a fraction of what her world amounted to. She had friends and family, she was no longer alone in the world.

It had been easier and harder then. Easier for her to only worry about herself, and not fear that she would be abandoned again, yet harder for the exact same reasons. There would never be anyone else around her. She would always be alone. It was easier, and harder. Painless, and painful. A kiss in the rain and a backward glance out of a moving taxi, seeing him stare after her with a crooked grin – it had changed everything. Change hurt her, and it healed her. She was frozen in reaching for the future and grasping for the past. She traced the curve of a mandible in her hand, its texture surprisingly smooth given its age, finding it helped to ground her in the present. Deep breaths in, relaxing her shoulders so they weren't up next to her ears. It was working. A small smile found its way to her mouth.

Evening. Exhaustion. The threat of another sleepless night. Booth cooked for them, tucked her in on the sofa. She felt far away from him and he hated it. Lavender dusted grooves beneath her eyes betrayed her when she told him she was fine. Her eyes flickered, she fought to keep them open. He fed her, they watched a documentary about the Serengeti that failed to keep Booth's interest. Her head in his lap, Booth smoothed her hair, wrapped tendrils around his fingers and hoped tonight would be better. Night fell, and they went to bed. Brennan reached for him, delaying sleep. Booth rolled on top of her, kissing down her body as she ran her fingers through his hair. She revelled in the feel of him pressed against her, the heat of his body as he slid down. I love you, murmured against the skin just below her navel. She felt his voice in her core. I love you so much. And then she couldn't respond in kind, his tongue moving in slow circles, stealing her words. Rolling her hips to meet his mouth, fingers quickly joined his efforts, and she strained for release. He didn't allow it, bringing her to the precipice and then slowing her down. Exquisite agony. She pulled on his hair, begging, a warning, to give her what she wanted. He did as she wanted, rising to kiss her lips and raised her left leg over his shoulder. A burning hand on his throat then traced down his sternum, taking hold of him to bring him to her. He swallowed her gasp as he slipped inside her. Her voice raised the hairs on the back of his neck, drinking in the sight of her beneath him. Her mouth parted, eyes flashing like lightning on the sea and Booth knew how she wanted him. Tunnel vision descended, both focused on each other, hips slamming together and no noise but harsh breaths and escalating groans. Then she stopped them, wriggled onto her stomach and felt Booth cover her back, his lips at her ear. He guided them back together, and then found her hand, pressing his face into her neck. She trembled, so did he, and after a few moments, Booth fell into the sound of her cries as she came around him, nipping her ear lobe with his teeth as he followed.

Then, peaceful sleep. At least for Booth. Exhausted, Brennan drifted into darkness. She saw the deepest recess of the Earth in front of her. Short, rounded walls met above her head as an arch, the strata of subterranean rock like gashes of a knife. She had descended there knowing she would never return to the world above. Around her, darkness edged towards her like snakes on their reptilian bellies, meandering in a perfect to and fro. She should turn back but something had brought her here. What it was eluded her. Three more steps and the sound of trickling water told her she was close. Close to what? Did she know why she was here? She didn't think so. Her feet moved by themselves, and she watched like a helpless child.

A glistening pool surrounded by a border of rounded pebbles emerged from the ground, the surface clear and still. If not for the few bubbles that erupted, Brennan would have thought the surface was frozen. Her knees buckled at the edge, her eyes drawn to find her own reflection in the water. She didn't recognise the face that stared back at her. More bubbles. She sought behind them and screamed.

Booth's face stared back at her, bubbles of air escaping his open mouth. She had found the missing head for the St Christopher medallion.

If she had known what would happen, and how quickly it would come about, she would have chosen her words more carefully.

She would have waited to speak.

She would have reached for him.

But even at the best of times, she did not always say the right thing.

When morning came, Booth snapped awake to the sound of sobs. He bolted upwards to a sitting position to find Brennan curled up with her arms wrapped around her legs, trying to smother her voice against her knees.

"Bones?" He asked, instantly shifting towards her. "Bones, hey, what's going on?"

She sounded like a wounded animal, rocking back and forth with breath hissing in and out of her mouth from between her teeth. The red claw marks on her shins and knee caps glowed in the early morning light. Booth surveyed them with horror, hating the idea that he slept soundly whilst she scraped at herself and dreamt of terrifying things. One hand moved instinctively to touch the damage, but Brennan flinched violently away. He paused.

"Bones, look at me. Come on," he urged, reaching to touch her again but catching himself just in time. She still hadn't raised her head. Her sobs were unbearable.

"I can't..."

Booth's ears pricked up at her mumbled words, "you can't what?"

More unstoppable peals of tears drowned her voice. He waited it out, staying as close as he could without touching her. He felt like she was being crushed and he was helpless, watching it happen.

A shuddering breath, followed by a deeper intake to calm herself. Her body shook with the effort.

Her head tilted upwards. Her eyes glistened and overflowed, "I can't do this. I'm losing myself."

Brennan would dissect those words later.

She would berate herself, and weep for everything she had ruined.

She would only be able to think about Booth.

Booth felt nothing on impact. Then, seconds later, realisation stabbed down the back of his neck. Sharp shooting pains proliferated throughout his body. It was familiar to him. He thought this feeling would never return. He had pushed it so far back in his mind that he had nearly forgotten about it altogether. His mouth set in a grim line as his hope and strength faded.

She saw his doubt. She had seen it before, and with the knowledge that her world was spiralling into disarray, she still couldn't find the words to explain. Trapped behind an immovable mouth, she watched Booth stand. He grabbed his clothes wordlessly, eyes welling, and slammed the bedroom door. Seconds later, the jingle of keys, the slide of a bolt and then the thud of the front door as it closed.

It took a couple of minutes but Brennan finally recovered from the shock and raced from the bedroom. She hadn't meant it, not like that; not for what he had taken her words to mean. Heart pounding, she sped barefoot out of her apartment. She couldn't let him leave. Her throat tightened. She wanted to run, to feel like she was making progress, but knew the lift would be faster. The early hour of the morning meant she was not likely to bump into any of her neighbours, something for which she was very glad. The lift was blissfully swift but it still felt like an eternity as she descended. Finally, the atrium of her apartment complex unveiled in front of her, and she crossed the marble floor to the main doors, fighting tears.

From across the lot, she could see that Booth's car was already gone.

Before he got out of the car, Booth called in sick – migraine. He didn't remember walking up to his apartment or switching his phone off. He only became aware of his surroundings as he slid down behind his front door, limbs heavy like lead. He stared into the relative dark, realising he hadn't turned on the lights. It was a good thing, he decided, that he was in the dark. There was nothing for him in the light.

For an hour he sat in the outskirts of his mind, looking in at himself with dispassionate stoicism. Dissociation was a blessing. He thanked God for the reprieve. He was numb, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing; he knew his face would reflect his mind. His phone, now a useless metal brick, lay beside him.

I can't do this.

"No!" Booth snapped, pulling at his hair. He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the sound of her voice. "No."

He could barely breathe. To make himself feel better he decided that he was doing so on purpose. He was in control, in his home, alone. Alone.

I'm losing myself.

"Fuck," he groaned into his hands. Something was burning inside him. He slumped forward onto his knees to try and smother it. It only grew, and soon he was breathing too much, too fast, hot tears stinging his eyes and forcing them shut. "Fuck," he croaked.

The dam broke. He cried until his chest hurt, and his head pounded. Shock tied him to the floor. Thinking was too much, he wanted there to be nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Please. Let there be nothing.

"What am I gonna do?" He found himself speaking out loud, words distorted by his face, frozen in pain, "I'm..."

Done? No. Never. Yet, he always found himself back in this familiar and cold place where he sat alone, pining and knowing that there would never be anyone else. Was it so easy for her to cut him out? Did he mean so little? Had he misread everything again? His mind betrayed him and unleashed everything that could cause him pain. Their first night together, finally knowing what it was like to be with her. Walking into her office after taking down Broadsky, seeing her cry tears of relief and latching onto him. His goddamn t-shirt down the side of her bed. Playing with her hair. Feeling her hand slip into his. Why didn't she love him, when she said she did? What had the last week been about?

Booth's heart cracked in two.

Brennan threw her phone on the bed. Nine times she called Booth, and nine times she went unanswered. Every one of her attempts was forwarded directly to voicemail. She dressed in a daze. She had to fix this but had no idea how. She picked up her phone again and was about to press the call button when she stopped. Angela was who she usually went to about these things, but now was not the time. She should only have to worry about the prospect of labour. She would not have time for anything else. The phone plopped back on the bed.

Why was she like this? Why could she not be enough? Brennan was not sure how to proceed. She couldn't stop crying – her tears slipped silently down her face in a steady stream, forceful and unending. Booth's face would not leave her mind. She needed to form a plan because this was not going to be how they ended. She couldn't let it happen this way. She wouldn't. Her ineptitude to express herself would not be the reason for his pain. She groaned hoarsely, furious with herself, with how all of her words came out wrong. Addled by lack of sleep and with the residue of her dreams like a sordid ache in her stomach, she had said what she felt. And she saw how Booth misinterpreted her. His face again. She scrunched her eyes shut, breathing deeply. He had doubted her and she wanted to be angry, but she couldn't. She had not been ready for them to be together in the past and it had hurt him, deeply. He had been turned down by Rebecca, by her, by Hannah. She needed to right the wrong. Now.

Telling him she was sorry wouldn't be enough. She just knew it wouldn't, which was odd and illogical for her to admit. She did not trust in her gut as Booth trusted his, because it was not something she believed in. The whisper of a thought sounded in the back of her mind. When she doubted, what did she look for?

Science. Facts. She grabbed her keys.

Evidence.

The moment Dr Brennan entered the atrium of the Jeffersonian, Cam knew that something was horribly wrong. From the balcony above, cradling a cup of coffee in both hands and her arms resting on the railings of the walkway, she mused over the numerous instances Dr Brennan had been in mortal danger because of her job. Dr Brennan had been buried alive, shot at, killed people, had someone die in her arms...and that was just in the time that Cam had worked at the Jeffersonian. Before that, Cam had heard of Dr Brennan's tireless work excavating victims of genocides in Rwanda, Venezuela, and god knows how many other countries, using her vacation days to help others. She'd been kidnapped by cartels, mock-executed and assaulted. And yet, watching her cross towards her office and disappear out of sight, Cam couldn't think of a time where Dr Brennan looked worse. She sipped her coffee, and hoped Seeley was alright.

Brennan had a small cabinet in the back left hand corner of her office. It was made of sustainably sourced dark wood, made by a carpenter she had met many years ago in Peru on one of her many excursions round the world. She had been staying in a hostel next door to his workshop, and he had showed her great kindness, preparing dinners for her after the long hikes she took during the day. On her departure, she had seen this small cabinet at the front of his shop and decided to bring it home. It was to this cabinet she darted towards, pulling the small door open. Inside, a stack of Anthropology journals that stretched to from the bottom to the top of the cabinet. She pulled them out, letting them spill on the floor around her until she found what she was looking for.

She reached for the brown velvet box, big enough to hold an A5 notebook but slim enough to slide it vertically behind the journals she had just removed. It was a safe place, a place that no one else knew about. Her hands trembled as she opened the lid, much like the lid of a jewellery box. Her eyes fell on its content, wary of its power.

"Good morning, Dr Brennan."

Brennan whipped round, finding Cam peering at her. She was trying to hide her concern with a forced sense of nonchalance and a smile. Brennan didn't buy it. She snapped the lid shut.

"Can I help you with anything, Dr Saroyan?" Even Brennan could tell that her tone was biting.

"No," Cam replied, clasping her hands together in front of her abdomen, "I just thought I'd check in and see how you're doing."

"I'm fine," Brennan got to her feet, stepping over the splayed Anthropology journals. "I'm leaving now."

Cam started to speak, but Brennan brushed past and left her in the office. Cam huffed, more out of confusion than annoyance. A moment passed, and she processed Dr Brennan's face. Out of the corner of her eye, Cam had seen how pale she was, the dark circles beneath her eyes...the sense that something was broken. She surveyed the cabinet, the journals on the floor, and thought of the little brown box that Dr Brennan clutched against her like the world depended on it.

Maybe her world did depend on it.

Just after lunch, Booth couldn't stand being in his apartment any more. He dressed and went to work, calling ahead to let them know that he'd be in after all. He wasn't sure if it was a good idea to be around people, but the thought of spending the rest of the day alone with only his thoughts for company was impossible. He would distract himself. He would go the gun range to blow off steam. He would go and cry in his private bathroom. Then he would find the most mundane task in the world, and he would do it until he was too tired to think, until he could go to bed and forget about the world and heartbreak and heart-stoppingly beautiful forensic anthropologists.

He arrived by one o'clock and found that no one acknowledged him, which was perfect. He went straight to the gun range, checking out goggles and ear protectors, and then spent twenty minutes firing fifty rounds from his service weapon. His aim was all over the place. After his fifty shots, he only felt more ramped up. Intrusive images and thoughts pressed on him. Blue eyes. Crooked smiles. They put a spike in his step as he went back to his office, and locked himself in his bathroom. He bit down on his wrist. Teeth pulling at his bottom lip. Rough gasps against his cheek. Tears seeped from the corner of his eyes, so he bit down harder. A hand running through his hair. Tugging. Unbuttoning his shirt. A soft rouge blossoming on her cheeks. His stomach clenched, so painful that Booth had to remove his wrist from his mouth to wrap his arms around his torso. He hunched over like he was winded. And then he saw the tooth marks on his arm. Tooth marks on her shoulder. He sucked in a wavering breath, raking his nails down his face. He wanted to get out, he wanted to crawl out of his skin, away from his mind – as far as he could go. He just wanted nothing. He wanted to be blank, to scratch it all out. To know what it was like to be with Bones and to have it taken away was unbearable. He couldn't go back.

After some time, he managed to leave the bathroom. He checked emails, answered phone calls and logged reports with his superiors. He texted Rebecca, asking about Parker and when he could see him. He got a swift reply, and they fixed a date for ten days time. He was away with her parents until then. That would do, he supposed. Not that he had much say. More emails, more phone calls, a quick scan of his caseload, which was empty. When he began to run out of nothing to do, he found some more. At three o'clock, he saw the back of a head as it rounded the corner towards the lift and for a fleeting moment, he thought it was Bones. His heart palpitated so vigorously that it tugged on the back of his throat. She was there one second, gone the next, caught only just before going out of sight. Five minutes of deep breathing and bartering with himself that it was not Bones, and he was back to focusing on distracting himself. Eventually, he clocked that it was dark and when he looked up, he saw one person tidying their desk. Everyone else had gone. The time glared at him from his digital clock. It was six o'clock. He paused and was plunged back into the feelings he had been fighting all day. He had not switched his phone on and it lay in his inside pocket, burning a hole against his ribs. She wouldn't have called anyway. He couldn't bring himself to find out.

"Booth, hey," Sweets said, appearing from the right and lingering at the door. "I'm glad you're here."

Booth leant back in his chair, noting how he really didn't want to see Sweets and still not understanding why. "Sweets."

Was it specifically Sweets he didn't want to deal with, or was it everyone? Then he remembered that he'd felt like this the last time they spoke. It was more than just being pissed off. The reasons behind his irritation swirled ephemerally, not allowing Booth to give them substance so he could understand their origin. Sweets swallowed noisily under Booth's scrutiny.

"I, um, well, I have this for you," Sweets offered a brown velvet box to him. He appeared to be struggling with his words.

Booth eyed the box suspiciously, "what is this?"

"It's for you. From Dr Brennan."

The surprise on Booth's face was visible from the moon. Sweets was struck by the reverence with which his friend carefully took the box in the palm of his hand. He had been equally surprised and confused when Dr Brennan had visited him earlier that day, handing the box to him and asking him to pass it on to Booth as a matter of great importance. Sweets dug his hands into his pockets and gave Booth a second to breathe.

Booth stared down at the box in his hands, trying to stay calm. "Bones was here."

Sweets nodded, "yes. She asked me to give this to you."

"Why didn't she give it to me herself?" Booth snapped, meeting his eyes.

Sweets knew he was treading on very thin ice. One wrong step and he'd go under. His friend looked simultaneously ready to break his neck and burst into tears.

"I think she wasn't sure that you wanted to see her."

A silence.

"How much do you know?" Booth asked, barely audible.

Sweets shifted his weight to the other leg, and cocked his head to the side, "I know what's in the box, and that's only because I gave it to her a couple of years ago. Other than that, I know nothing. If she's decided to give this to you, then I can only assume that whatever is going on is important."

Another silence. Booth brushed his fingers over the swell of the velvet lid, fighting the urge to snap. He was baffled by Bones' actions. What was so important that she had to give this to him, but not important enough to give it to him herself? He was rigid as everything started to materialise and make sense. Her words came back to him. You can't die on me again, Booth. I can't take it. I won't. And then, It's why I said no. Booth flared.

"You've fucked everything up, Sweets."

He balked, eyes widening. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Booth waited to see if he would say anything in response but grew more and more frustrated by his silence.

"When Bones thought I was dead," Booth began, standing up. The words came slowly, deliberately spoken, meticulously executed. The box went on the desk in front of him, "she went through hell. All because you decided to perform an experiment. Do you know how bad it was for her? She barely ate or slept, and she didn't leave her apartment. She was in a really dark place, and you let it happen for no reason."

Sweets felt the blood leave his face.

"God knows what could've happened if my assignment had been any longer. From what she's told me, I might have had to bury her myself and that would be on you. And then, guess what? Remember when we discussed your book, and we told you about our actual first case? You called me out. You remember what you said? I sure as hell do."

A pregnant silence. Sweets swallowed again, "I think I said you're the gambler."

Booth slapped his hand on the desk, "I'm the gambler." A beat. "You were right. You gave me hope, so I gambled. I lost."

"Booth-"

"No, Sweets, I don't wanna hear it!" His temper erupted, and he lashed out, "when you decided not to tell Bones about my assignment, when you let her think I died in her arms, it scared her so much that when she found out I was alive, she couldn't let me be any more than a friend and colleague. She was terrified of me, Sweets, terrified to try. Your decisions set us back years." God, he was nearly in tears. He had shed too many today, "you've caused so much damage."

Booth collapsed in his chair, elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. He fought the tears that were spilling down his cheeks. All of his defences were gone. He was just so tired. He didn't even care if Sweets was still in the room, but he heard him sit in one of the chairs opposite. Then, complete silence. Booth focused on his breathing, one hand dropping from his face to hold the velvet box from Bones. His Bones. Christ, he hated how he latched onto it, needing it close to him so it felt like she was there too. Was it only last night that he'd tucked her in on the sofa? If he could find a way to go back to that night, he would. He'd do anything.

"It is one of the greatest regrets of my life that I have caused you and Dr Brennan so much pain," Sweets said brokenly. His voice creaked beneath the weight of his words, "I can't begin to explain how very, very sorry I am for everything. I...I had no idea, and it is unforgivable that I didn't consider the consequences of my actions. I can only apologise and..." he trailed off.

Booth looked at him. Sweets sat leaning forward on his knees, hands clasped between his kneecaps. Booth saw the child in him, in the wobble of his bottom lip and the frequent blinks to banish unwanted tears. He met Booth's gaze, and the depth of regret in his eyes was unmistakeable.

"I'm so sorry," Sweets said, a whisper. Booth felt its sincerity in his core and didn't have the energy to be angry any more.

He cleared his throat, "it'll be alright, Sweets. I just think that we needed to talk about that."

Sweets nodded, wiping his eyes quickly, "this kind of thing festers if not discussed openly and honestly-"

"Alright, alright, no therapy please." Booth retorted, half joking, half not.

"Forgive me," Sweets held up his hands. For everything, his expression added.

Booth nodded. Soon.

Sweets took his leave, sloping back to his office. Booth couldn't ignore the little brown velvet box now. He was painfully anxious to open it but was afraid at what it might hold. Inhaling deeply, he lifted the lid. Inside, he saw an A5 notebook, bound in forest green linen with the word 'JOURNAL' embossed on the front. He removed it from its box, and as he did so, a white envelope slipped from beneath the front cover. His name, in Bones' handwriting, was on the front. He felt sick but pushed through, pulling out the letter inside:

Booth,

We both know that I don't express myself well in person. I tend to say the wrong thing which offends and alienates me from others. This morning is a prime example of such. I am so sorry. I feel that what I said was misinterpreted, and I saw how much you doubted me and my feelings for you in that moment. I have tried calling to explain but I understand that you do not want to speak to me. I don't blame you for that.

Enclosed is my journal. Sweets gave this to me when I was told you were dead. He said that it would help me grieve. I want you to read it, so you can understand what I cannot say. Please call me when you have finished, even if it is to say goodbye.

Yours,

Bones

He fished his phone out of his pocket, and turned it on. Five seconds later, it buzzed repeatedly. Nine missed calls from Bones. Six text messages. His heart swelled and his hands found the journal. Did he want to do this here? Could he wait to drive home?

No. He couldn't.

He opened the journal to page one.

What do you think? Drop me a few words, it makes my day!