###
48 hours. My hands are clean, but they still feel heavy and slick with blood.
I have no thoughts. Today is the first day I have moved. I can't breathe without my chest hurting. Thinking about eating has taken up my day but I won't do it. I can't do it. I can't look at my hands for long. This pen must be covered with blood. My hands look clean but they never will be. They refuse. I can't do this.
Why did Sweets give me this journal? It won't help. Nothing will help. Nothing will fix this. I waited in the hospital for hours, waiting for news. Another Agent, one I can't remember the name of, told me that he's gone. I demand to see his body. They won't let me. They won't let me see him. They won't let me say goodbye. I can't breathe.
Death is a colleague. I see him every day. I am used to his brutality. For many years I have given a face to those he has made faceless. But he has faces of his own. Some are peaceful, smiling in old age. Most bare their teeth and take teenagers, people who have barely lived, babies who have never lived at all. Now he has taken someone else.
Booth has passed on. He is only in the next room. I will see him again in the next life.
I wish I believed that was true, that I believed in the euphemisms mankind has invented to make death less final. But there is nothing else after this consciousness. He is gone. I will never see him again.
It has been 48 hours.
###
Booth leaned back, eyes stinging. He hadn't known what to expect, but this was harder than he anticipated. Thinking about Bones being so miserable was enough to make his gut twist and his heart pound in his chest like it were trying to break free, but reading it was far worse. They leapt off the page, sinking their icy cold talons into him. There were no dates on the entries, just little hatchings to indicate the end of one and the beginning of another. Booth realised Bones probably hadn't known what day it was. He swallowed to try and calm his rolling stomach.
###
I made it to the bathroom. My hands are raw from soap and water. They are still not clean. I managed to undress and sit in the shower but I cannot cry. I stared until my skin puckered. Got out. Felt like everything was too big and empty and got back into bed. Stared for another few hours. I know Angela will be calling but I can't. My phone is in the kitchen, switched off. If I have it, I will embarrass myself by calling someone who will not pick up. He will never answer again.
###
Why can't I cry? Have I become so detached that I no longer have the ability? Is that who I am? Perhaps this is only a surprise to me. To others I am unfeeling, lacking in empathy and compassion. That is who I am to them. The one person who may have thought differently is gone. The one person. What do I do now?
###
Since it happened, my dreams are full of him. In some he is bleeding in my arms, asking me questions I don't understand. Others, he is already gone and I try in vain to revive him. The worst are the ones where he is alive. He sips beer with me, grinning and arguing. Sometimes he takes my hand and I feel it like it is real. I wake up warm and whole, and then I remember, and I am hollow again.
One dream in particular will not leave me alone, waking or sleeping. It is something I have tried not to think about but it won't relent. I find him outside, I'm not sure where, but I know that I need him. He stands beneath the porch of a house, sheltering from the rain. I join him there. He draws me in, his arms slide around me like there is nothing in the world more natural to him, and I nestle against him. I can feel him around me so clearly, like it is happening in real life. We pull apart, but only just. His breath is warm and I whisper that I want him to stay. Then I wake.
Dreams are cruel. I lose him over and over, every time I wake up.
###
4 days. Everything in my apartment is quiet. There have been knocks at my door, but I have ignored them. A note from Sweets. Then from Cam. One from Angela begging me to call her. All were deposited into the bin. I have nothing to say.
###
Today has shown me that he was right about me. I am not as unfeeling as others perceive. My pen fell under the bed. I found a gym bag that doesn't belong to me. Inside was a t-shirt. His t-shirt. He must have left it one evening and I had forgotten about it, tucked it under my bed for safe keeping. I don't know how I feel.
I finally cried. All I see is him. I don't know what it means to feel like this, but I have cried until I was in agony. My head still splinters with pain. There is more to come. His t-shirt smells of him and it threatens to begin the cycle again. I don't know what I think, or how I'm going to continue. This is new. This is not something I have experienced before. Hearts cannot break, but mine certainly seems to be broken in some way.
Is this really happening?
###
I have had no more than 10 hours sleep over the last 5 nights. Those hours don't allow me to rest. This morning, I woke and wished I hadn't. Booth's t-shirt was next to my head. I held it against my face, inhaling, pretending. I tell myself this is a normal response to the loss of a friend and colleague but I know I'm lying. I have never admitted it aloud, but this journal is safe. It's mine. It will not question me or reproach me for what I think. My mind is spinning and I need it to stop.
There are facts that have become clear. One. Booth is my colleague and partner, and I miss him. Two. I wish it had been me who had died. Three. I cannot stop thinking about the kiss. It replays in my head without end. Rain. Darkness. The glow of the street lamp. Tequila. Standing nose to nose, his eyes searching mine. Low voices, teasing each other. And then the kiss itself. Even now, I feel it in my body when I think about it. The push and pull, the intensity, how my heart thudded in my ears.
Why can I not ignore this memory? Why does it play on a loop in my mind? Have I lost more than I know?
###
Correction. Booth was my colleague and partner. I miss him. I will have to stop writing now. I can't write and cry at the same time.
###
Booth closed the journal, placed it back in its box and took it with him as he left the office. He fought to keep his face smooth and unemotional in case anyone remained in the building. He passed a few security guards in the lobby, bid them goodnight as calmly as he could, and then left to find his car. He couldn't get there fast enough. As soon as he had climbed into the driver's seat and shut himself inside, he tipped his face to the roof and closed his eyes. He trailed the spine of the journal with the palm of his hand and allowed himself to crumple, a quiet sob breaking through his façade. He couldn't make sense of his feelings, they were all tangled together in a god-forsaken mess. He'd had no idea she had felt like that. The dreams of them together, it was everything he had ever wanted to hear. He'd had them throughout their partnership, woken up after dreaming of her being his, imagining the simple touches, the looks, the embraces. The realisation, like cold water dripping down his back, that it wasn't real.
He quashed his tears and drove home.
Once inside, Booth placed the box on the coffee table and went to shower. He rolled his shoulders, heard the pops and cracks, wished that he could shower with Bones and feel her hands on him. The hot water soothed him temporarily, but his thoughts remained fixated on the journal and why Bones had wanted him to read it. Maybe it would become clear the more he read. He changed into tracksuit bottoms and a cotton t-shirt, stomach rumbling. Part of him wanted to order in, but it felt wrong to do it without Bones. He settled for frozen pizza instead, and sunk down onto the sofa. He thought about her and what she might be doing now. Was she as miserable as he was? Her letter made it seem so. He opened the journal again.
###
I cannot stop crying. I can't face leaving my apartment. Everywhere I look, there is Booth. In every thought and action, I find reminders of our friendship and our past and I can't do it. His t-shirt is all I have left. I wear it when I sleep, it is the only thing that helps me rest even though that rest amounts to a couple of hours each night. Tomorrow it will have been a week.
More and more, I focus on the little things and on the feelings I have suppressed. How did I ever escape that first kiss? I don't think I did, after all. At first, it was just sexual. He was pleasing to look at, symmetrical and well-built; but then there was more. He made me laugh. I admired him. I respected him. He had the same goal to be the voice for people who couldn't speak for themselves, the same drive. His belief in God was something I could never understand, but his belief in good was a concept I thought I might be able to believe in some day. I wanted to. I want to. But it doesn't seem like it's possible now, without him. There was always that pull, but I dismissed it. Angela went on and on and I ignored her. I don't know how to put it into words. I am capable of sexual encounters with no strings attached, but that never felt possible with Booth. I can't be more than casual with someone, it isn't what I do. Booth was not a casual man, and it is not what he wanted. Ergo, I am not what he wanted, no matter what Angela said.
Yet I am restless and lost. I am completely lost. I am terrified. I don't know how to do this. It shouldn't be this hard and there is nothing on this earth that can make things better. This pain is more than I ever thought possible. I wish I tried. I wish I could turn back time.
###
The t-shirt no longer smells like him.
I have nothing left.
###
I finally managed to sleep. Another dream. I don't remember surroundings or a setting. There is only him. I see flashes of him, his warm brown eyes, the curve of his mouth as he smiles. Then a feeling of peace as he kisses me. Tequila. Peppermint. Rain. Mistletoe. This time I wake and I'm angry. I'm dressed, I've folded Booth's t-shirt and placed it beneath my pillow. I can't stay here any more. I'm so tired of grief. There has to be a way to quieten it.
The multitude of my mistakes is becoming clear. I am not strong enough to face them.
###
Booth continued to read. Her entries became more fragmented and so did his resolve to continue the radio silence with Bones. He held his phone, thinking of what he could possibly say. But he knew there had to be more. There had to be something in this journal that she needed him to see. He must persevere. A glance at the clock: it was well past ten. Not like he was going to sleep until he'd finished reading anyway. He pressed on.
###
It has been 9 days since Booth. I work only on ancient remains. There are no more newly dead in my life. Cam approached me this morning, dressed in black, mourning. She knew him far longer than I did, and yet I don't care. I don't want to hear her talk about him like it will help me. Nothing will help me.
###
Tequila. Peppermint. Rain. Mistletoe.
###
Did he suffer? I'm glad I will never know.
###
Trapped in that car, thinking I would never see him again and the panic that thought inspired should have told me everything I needed to know. Being pulled from beneath the earth, staring up into his face, dusty and exhausted and terrified. I have never seen anything better than his smile, never felt anything more needed than the weight of his hand on my hip. I should've done something then. I should have, but I was too afraid.
So many regrets. Too many to count.
###
I slept on the sofa in my office. I remember all too many conversations we had in this room, so sleep does not come easily. I am so tired. All night spent with the bones of the long dead, something that used to bring me satisfaction, but I still find no joy in anything. This used to be enough. I had everything I needed to survive. The parameters of my life have been broken by him. Going back to the life I had before is not as easy as I would have thought. It is grey and dull, lacking in something I didn't realise I had.
I can't do this.
###
12 days.
Brutal dreams. I'm above him, moving. He holds my hips, his eyes travelling upwards to my face. He lurches up and catches my bottom lip between his teeth. I wake, gasping and furious. I drink some water, and then smash the glass. Nothing is ever enough.
###
Tequila. Rain. Gambling. This is going somewhere. His voice. Regrets? Never. That would never happen. Surprised by the feel of him, by the kiss, by its strength. Pulling away because it's more than I expected and it doesn't feel right to have it over so quickly. Not knowing why at the time, but knowing it was needed. Looking back, overwhelmed. Wondering how I could have been so, so ignorant.
I can't be here. Why wasn't it me? I want it to stop. It has to stop soon, surely?
###
Booth.
###
God help him. Booth felt the slow trickle of tears down his face, and did nothing to stop them. He couldn't do any more tonight. It was too much. He had an inkling as to why Bones had given this to him, a suspicion that would either be sustained or negated the more he read; but no more tonight. Now he needed sleep. He needed space. He tumbled into bed, eyes screwed shut, and waited until he couldn't feel the stream of tears on his cheeks any more, or until he fell asleep – whichever came first.
Too anxious to return home, Brennan stayed at the Jeffersonian all night. She didn't welcome the sunrise when it came, knowing it meant another day of waiting. The significance of her journal in Booth's hands had escaped her until she no longer had it in her possession. Like her heart was outside of her body, her mind was similarly vulnerable to Booth. She ached at the thought of him, still surprised at the physical pain that enveloped her when she thought of his face, his reaction and his sudden departure from her apartment. Only when the profound comfort he gave her was taken away did she realise just how much she needed it back. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, clearly had no idea what they were talking about. Brennan had never felt so disillusioned with life.
Her phone buzzed. She jolted at the sound, in vain as it turned out. It was Angela.
Breakfast?
Brennan couldn't make up her mind. Could she deal with company? She didn't want to trouble Angela when she had more important things to deal with. But, Angela was always there for her, even when she had pressing matters in her own life. Who else could Brennan really talk to? That was if she wanted to talk to her at all about Booth. Maybe a distraction would be beneficial.
Sure. 830 at the Diner?
They made plans and Brennan realised she should freshen up. She shut herself in the bathroom, and caught sight of her face in the mirror. She examined herself with mild shock. Her eyes were a dull blue, framed by darkening mauve shadows. Her skin looked sallow and lacking in colour, her mouth in a tight line, her hair unkempt. She looked only marginally better than she felt. In her own eyes she saw her longing for Booth, her love. He had not messaged or called, not even to confirm that he had received her journal. Perhaps he never would. Maybe their goodbye would be one of silence. Booth might just disappear into the ether, much like her parents had.
She crumbled and cried to the sound of water dripping from the tap.
Angela was preoccupied with the little soul who occupied a space inside her body. She was ready to expel the soul, and hold the baby she loved mostly because she was ready to be a mother, but also because she was tired of not being able to tie her own shoelaces. She hadn't seen her own feet for months. Sitting down and standing up was an ordeal worthy of retelling in the style of a Homeric Epic. It was a wonder she hadn't lost her mind.
That all vanished the moment she saw Brennan at the door.
She beckoned her friend to join her, noting the stark difference in her appearance compared with their last meeting. Brennan had glowed when they'd met for lunch days before, but now there was nothing left of that light. She looked more tired and defeated than she had in years. Angela knew her frown was impossible to hide.
"Hey, what's going on?" She didn't bother with pleasantries.
Brennan sat gingerly across from her and shrugged, "I'm fine. How are you?"
Angela shook her head, "I'm just as much of a beached whale as I was the last time we saw each other. What's wrong, Brennan?"
Brennan hesitated. She held her tongue, choosing her words carefully. This felt wrong, everything felt wrong. Before she knew it, her eyes welled with tears. Angela's hand covered hers, and Brennan held on tightly.
"I've ruined everything, Ang. I don't know what to do." She could barely speak. Every word brought a sob dangerously close to the surface, "I don't know how to fix it."
She recounted the nightmares, the comfort, the growing fear that bled from the night into her days; Booth leaving her apartment, her attempts to contact him to explain and her unanswered voicemails. Angela listened with bated breath.
"I don't think he'll forgive me," she whispered, and then couldn't continue. The idea that he would cast her off and end things was too much to contemplate. The prospect of endless nights alone loomed ahead.
"Sweetie, it's a misunderstanding. Nothing more. It'll be alright," Angela assured her, squeezing her hand. "I'm sure of it."
"How can you be sure?" Brennan's eyes begged for answers.
"Because," Angela replied, "there is no one else for Booth but you. He knows it, you know it, we all know it. Think about it for a minute."
Brennan shook her head, eyes closing, "I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
A silence. The diner was quiet around them, other than the gentle clinking of coffee cups in the kitchen. The world around them was slowly coming to life, but the hustle of commuters had not reached them yet.
"I'm so scared."
Brennan's voice was small. Scared of what? Everything. Finding Booth only to lose him; returning to a strictly professional relationship; losing touch with Booth altogether. Being alone, again. Losing another kind of family that Angela knew she and Hodgins and Cam and Sweets could never fully replace.
"It will take time, but it will be alright with Booth." Angela knew it would be.
Brennan's voice broke, "I've been waiting for so long."
Angela wished there was something she could say, but she knew that Brennan had been waiting most of her life.
###
I don't know where to begin.
Booth is alive. An undercover operation that required the target to believe he was dead is the reason for all of the secrecy.
How could he do this to me? We've been partners for more than 3 years, and he didn't tell me that he wasn't really dead. I can barely look at him. I switched my phone back on, and he's been calling non-stop, sending messages trying to explain. I can't speak to him right now. I don't know how to feel. I'm furious, I'm hurt, I'm overjoyed.
I'm so, so angry.
I stuffed the t-shirt back into the bag and threw it under my bed. I am embarrassed. I am disgusted. I can't stop crying at all of the pointless pain I went through and how I questioned myself in ways I never would have if this hadn't happened. I don't know how I come back from this. The dreams. The memories. I'm too vulnerable, I'm too close. I can't do this.
How do I do this?
###
Booth relived that time of his life through her eyes. He grimaced, furious at Sweets but knowing that he would forgive eventually. He knew that Bones was still angry, would probably always be angry...but there were so many details he hadn't known about. Her dreams of them together, playing their first kiss over and over in her head. He'd done the same. He'd never forgotten it, or the kiss under the mistletoe. He didn't know it had tortured her so much. He continued to read, her entries full of anger and mistrust, but slowly coming round to the realisation that had stalled them. Each word struck him like a physical hand.
###
Despite what I want, I can never do this again. I can never be more than this, not with him. It's done.
###
He read on from the safety of his sofa, calling in sick and vowing to stay away for real this time. He'd woken with clouded thoughts, barely rested, and he knew he'd be a hindrance rather than a help to the FBI. He needed time and space to process Bones' journal, and he couldn't stand distraction. Nothing else was more important. He followed her thoughts through the years, seeing their cases through her eyes, the intricate patterns of her mind becoming clearer with every page. He felt like he was walking beside her, spectating and grateful for the insight into the woman he often struggled to understand. And then, a familiar scene. The steps of the Hoover.
###
Booth kissed me. I can't describe it. Everything I've imagined falls short, and my memories pale in comparison. But I can't. I can never do it.
I am stuck on how he admonished me, and then pulled me to him. I replay it in my head. The terror, the excitement, getting lost in how he looked at me as he came closer. When he spoke, when he said he was willing to give it, us, a shot, I felt it low in my stomach. Something clicked into place. I have never been so afraid and so relieved when he was suddenly all around me. So close. Warm. Familiar and new. Enveloped and suddenly...glowing. And then the kiss. I forgot myself. I forgot all of my apprehension and doubt, and just knew that the feeling was good. Unlike anyone else and anything else I'd ever known.
But I know I've done the right thing. The longer I let it go on, the more I knew he'd be hurting. I can't be like him, I can't trust in things the way that he does. He trusts easily. I need facts and evidence, and there is none for someone like him. I can't be what he needs. I can't give him everything he deserves. I don't have it in me, no matter what he says. Blind faith is not enough, no matter how much I want it to be. I made the decision more than a year ago. I made it for a good reason.
He has to move on. I have to move on. I have to protect him.
I keep thinking about him.
What have I become? What have I done to him? I've never had so many questions without answers.
It has to stop.
###
He rubbed his face with his hand, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth hurt. He hadn't understood what she meant at the time. She'd been so clear that he needed protecting from her. It hadn't made any sense. It had all been a mess. That one moment where she had kissed him back, her hand curled against his chest...he tried to focus. Entries were sparse, lacking in detail. They began to pick up again and Booth realised that the next bulk were from when she was in Maluku. It was strange to think that at the same time, he'd been in Afghanistan trying to pretend that he wasn't nursing a broken heart. Maybe he thought shooting a big gun about it would help, but he found his placement to be severely lacking in catharsis. Until Hannah. Until distraction eased his suffering just enough that he could tell himself he was cured. He'd still thought about Bones every goddamn day. He lay awake at night thinking of the sound of her voice, wishing he could call. He heard her voice as he read on.
###
It has been a while. 4 months in Maluku this week, and it has not been what I expected. The anthropological importance of this trip is not going to be as significant as we had hoped. Ms Wick is obviously disappointed, as am I. The jungle is hot and relentless, and funding has been withdrawn to the bare minimum necessary to maintain the expedition. It is myself, Ms Wick and a group of five others, the others we don't expect will be seconded here much longer. Another month maybe, 6 weeks at the most. Then it shall be up to myself and Daisy to conclude our findings, of which there are not many.
I have not written in here since I arrived in Indonesia. I struggled to find the words, and perhaps I did not want to see proof. It is hard for me to admit this but I feel that I need to write it down. I need to see it. So I shall be blunt.
From the moment I left for Maluku, I have not stopped thinking about Booth. The dreams have returned. Intrusive thoughts that I cannot control detach me from the present to the point that part of me wonders what I'm still doing in Indonesia. I see him everywhere. I want to tell him every thought that crosses my mind, to hear his voice and know that those eyes are fixed on me. Yet, I have not contacted him. I can't bring myself to do it. I don't even know if he is safe.
During the day I throw myself into my work. My key objective is to distract myself. It works some of the time, but only just. The nights are more difficult. When the sun drops too low and work must stop for the day, I am alone with him. I curl up in a ball in my tent and try not to dwell. But he is there, persistent as ever. Frustrating as ever. The first few weeks I fought with myself every night. I berated myself silently for not having the strength to ignore him, to forget him. I spent hours listing every bone in the human body. When that didn't work, I described the Krebs Cycle to myself in exhaustive detail, then went through the alphabet listing 5 girls names and 5 boys names for each letter. Sleep rarely came those first few weeks. In the end, I realised that I don't have the strength to push him away. So I've given in. When he appears, I invite him in. I think about the last time I saw him, the feel of his hand around mine, the things I should've said but didn't. I wander between memories. Our first case, that first kiss. The cases that followed, the way I started to turn towards him without realising. We had a connection that I'd never experienced before. He always took the time to explain things to me, listened to me when I could summarise something better than he could. Knowing that I had not imagined the tension in those early days is a bittersweet comfort. He had been interested, he had been attracted to me. It was reciprocated more deeply than I was prepared for. I laughed so much with him. I was finally living rather than existing. And then the Gravedigger, wondering if I would ever see him again.
I keep coming back to that. I was going to die. I was never going to see him again. I would never know if I could do it. To not know. Not knowing was torture. And still, I did nothing.
Am I a coward?
I have spent so many years searching for truth. I have built my life around its pursuit and I think that I have been denying something that has been perfectly evident to others, but lacking clarity to me. Or am I lying? Do I stray so far from what I do and who I am? I just don't know.
###
Go and play with your bones, Bones.
Something that came back to me last night, he used to say that a lot in the beginning when things between us were still frayed. I'd snap back, "Don't call me Bones." I was Dr Brennan. Or Temperance. Never Bones. Though I liked how he said my name, I never told him.
Why would I? I hide. I lie.
###
I remember the long days I spent beside Booth's bedside after his operation to remove the tumours from his brain. I wrote a story. I read it to him. I disappeared inside the narrative and I was happy. It was real to me. How could I have forgotten about that?
It was fantasy.
No, it was what I wanted.
Is that not the same thing?
Is it as impossible as it was before?
I close my eyes and remember what it was like to sit next to him. I cry silently into my pillow and hope that no one has heard me.
###
Time goes slowly. So does the dig. We have found a few bone fragments but nothing of note. Ms Wick remains eager to keep spirits high but I find her grating. I told her to take the others and continue working whilst I'm busy. I have since sneaked back to my tent and zipped myself inside.
Booth would tell me to be kinder to them all, to let the softer part of me out. I bruise so easily this way but apparently there is good to come from it. Is he safe? Is he happy? Can he even be happy in a war zone? Night and day, I worry.
I've made a mistake. I know I have, but I don't know how to fix it.
###
It is the middle of the night. I don't know what time exactly, but everything outside of my tent is silent bar the sound of insect activity. My lantern is on the lowest setting and I can barely see, but I am wide awake.
Another dream. We are sat side by side at the Founding Fathers. I sneak a peak at him to find he is already looking at me. His expression changes, his hand finds mine on the bar, and he entwines our fingers. I say nothing. Neither does he. Everything has changed.
I miss him painfully.
###
Booth's bottom lip trembled as he turned the pages, devouring every word. Part of him was furious at her. He'd been completely unaware that this was how she really felt. Her rejection of him had seemed so final. He felt like she'd let him down gently, not wanting to hurt him more than she had to. Maybe she found him attractive and maybe she cared for him, as a friend, but there was no love lost. She cared about him, but not in the same way that he cared for her. Evidently, that was not the case. Something else had held her back – for years. Why couldn't she just have told him all this? It was unfair of him, he realised quickly. He knew her history, he understood her actions and what fuelled them. But still, it didn't mean that it didn't hurt.
So what had happened the other morning? What was that? He didn't know how much more of this he could take. He persevered and spent the next two hours reading, following her entries as she returned to the US. The first made him flinch.
###
Booth has moved on.
I got what I wanted.
###
Additions here and there, once again lacking in the detail he had grown accustomed to. The absence of words spoke of her embarrassment, like she was ashamed to have discussed him and her feelings now that she had seen he was with someone else. The distance between them widened as he read on; a yawning chasm from which Booth struggled to escape. And then, a punch to his gut.
###
I saw my life over three days and how it was going to be unless I did something. For months I have watched things unravel. I have seen how different my life has become, and I am confused.
He is gone most of the time. I wear his t-shirt again, feeling like it is wrong but not understanding why. I can't bring myself to stop. I should give it back to him, but I won't. It is my only reminder of how things were. It allows me to remember what could have been, had I been brave then.
My bravery, now, is ill-timed. I am too late. I missed my chance and I must stop. I have to stop. How many more years can I delude myself that things will turn out the way I would like? Why has it taken me this long?
It is too late to give him everything he wanted with me. He already has it with someone else. For me, love is a solitary affair. It always will be. But at least he will be happy. That's all I want.
It's all I've ever wanted.
###
He read those last words, again and again. They fell on him like the rain that broke the drought. The journal was returned to its box and seconds later, Booth wept like a child, because that final page made him realise something.
He had needed proof.
Facts.
Evidence.
A sob. A smile. Then he reached for his phone.
I've worked really hard on this one. I hope it lived up to expectations. Drop me a review if you have a minute!