A/N: Wow, I didn't realize that people had responded to the last chap cuz alerts were down, so thank you, thank you! Both Hart and I are glad that people are liking this story. Be warned, its getting more angsty!

Chapter Eight: Losing Grip

Booth walked out of the FBI building and sighed, he hated being on edge with Travis…but he seemed to be doing it a lot lately. There was really no reason for him to stay. He was pretty good about keeping up with paperwork and he had done all of it two weeks ago, having kept busy since then with any work he could find. But when he unnecessarily snapped at a Junior Agent three days ago, Cullen forced him to take a leave of absence.

The summer morning did not feel at all inviting, ominous clouds said rain was on it's way and the unbelievable humidity backed up that assumption. Early morning fog had settled and most people were still at home, escaping the muggy heat with air conditioning and ice water. The pavement was still wet from a short drizzle earlier and somewhere off in the distance a woman was walking, the click of her high heels echoing off the streets.

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair, noting that he'd forgotten to brush it that day and without gel it was most likely a bushy mess all over his head. Not that he really cared.

He glanced up, his monstrous black SUV seeming out of place on the empty street, looking forbidding and enticing at the same time.

Booth jammed his hands into his jean pockets and walked in the opposite direction of his vehicle. He wandered aimlessly, knowing full well he should head back to the apartment and make up with Bones, but the prospect felt too tiring at the moment. Instead he found the stiff silence in the air a welcome comfort and his thoughts seemed to have quieted for the first time in weeks.

He'd been walking with his head down and had no idea how far he'd gotten. When he looked up, chills ran up and down his spine and he gritted his teeth.

He was in the middle of Arlington National Cemetery. He blinked as drops of water ran down his face and into his eyes. Looking up he realized it was raining. Well, not raining per say, more like…misting. A rain so light and soft it didn't really deserve to be called 'rain'.

He started walking again, this time with purpose. He hadn't visited the grave in years, but for some reason his feet seemed to know the way.

Minutes later he stopped and looked down. In a sea of small white headstones and miniature American flags, he'd managed to find a single man. Beneath an engraving of the cross he read:

Charles Seeley Booth
Private First Class
US Army
February 4, 1889
December 16, 1915
Silver Star
World War I

He stared at the engraved words for a moment, lost in memories of summer vacations with his family. They'd often travel down from Philadelphia to a cabin in Virginia, but his father always made a point to take his two sons to the nation's capital. Wanted them to know where they came from, the meaning of duty and honor. He and his brother would visit countless monuments while their father gave a running commentary of the significance of each one.

But every time they inevitably ended up here, in this very spot and his father would tell them how their great-grandfather left a wife and son, their grandfather, to go fight in the war, protect his family and his country. And he told them how Seeley got his name.

"Hi Grandpa Charlie." Booth began roughly, his voice not sounding like his own. Silence was the only response. He sighed and kneeled, crossing himself and bowing his head. His tired eyes fell shut.

It was easier to find the words with his eyes closed.

"What do I…I'm…" He took a deep breath and unclenched his jaw, he'd been gritting his teeth lately and it was giving him a headache. "I'm not some idiot Neanderthal." He said finally, opening his eyes to the tombstone.

"I know she can take care of herself, I've seen her do it. She's the strongest, smartest woman I know, she doesn't need me to protect her…she calls me an alpha-male." He shook his head, Brennan's face swirling in his mind. "But protecting her is what I do, it's what I bring to our partnership. Whether she likes it or not that is my job, on and off the clock, to keep her safe… if I fail to, then why does she need me?" He looked back at the stone, but it did not answer him.

He shook his head at himself, and closed his eyes again.

"I can't stand seeing her in pain. I feel like my chest is going to collapse every time I have to change her bandages or help her out of the bathtub. And I can see how much she hates it, and she blames me for her helplessness. I can feel it. Then there's Parker."

Booth smiled sadly and blinked as water ran down into his eyes. "He's so…he runs around most of the time like nothing happened…and then it's like a switch gets flipped. A car backfires, or someone startles him from behind and he's in tears…I hear him scream at night," He paused, trying to stop his voice from shaking, "and I wonder if it will ever be over for him. For any of us. It's been nearly a month since the shooting and nothing feels the same. It feels like it will never be the same again, we'll always have the memory of that day there, lurking in the back of our minds. In our dreams." He trailed off for a moment. "And I don't know how to make it right."

He studied the engraving carefully, wishing for a whispered piece of advice. "How do I make things right again Grandpa Charlie?" He whispered.

"By talking to people who will actually answer you."

Booth stood quickly and whirled around, his hand instinctively flying to his hip, although his holster was, of course, missing.

He squinted through the fog at the figure coming toward him.

"Bones?"

She emerged smiling. "Yes, unless your great-grandfather favored Prada." She teased, pointing to her brown knee high boots.

Booth smiled for her sake and took her hand as she came to stand beside him.

"I was asking for advice." He said, after a few minutes of silence.

She turned to him, her flowery perfume wafting toward him as she moved.

"Did you get any?"

He sighed and shook his head, lifting his gaze to a thick of trees a few rows away.

"No, not really. But then you can't always…" He stopped and squinted, his senses automatically heightened. He could have sworn he just saw something move over there.

"What is it?"

He shook his head and started to move, pushing her behind him.

"Booth, what are you…"

Her words were cut off by a deafening blast that echoed and disturbed a flock of crows in a nearby tree.

Booth reached for his hip and pulled out his Glock, firing two quick rounds at the shadow in the trees. A soft 'thud' caught his attention and he turned, horrified to see Brennan lying beside him, eyes wide with fear as her shirt darkened with blood.

The ground fell from beneath him and he was on his knees beside her. He used one hand to apply pressure to her wound, the other smoothed her hair as he leaned close to whisper to her.

He could see the light fading in her eyes and blinding panic rose in his chest.

"Bones, Bones please. God, Temperance don't do this to me again. Don't leave me, please." He begged, leaning close to whisper to her.. His voice had given out.

She slowly lifted one pale hand and touched his cheek.

"I loved you Booth…why did you let this…" Her hand dropped and her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

"Bones…Bones! Temperance!" He shook her, but there was no response. He knew she was gone.

He screamed and the world split apart, releasing a down pour that immediately soaked through his clothes, washed her blood from his skin, but couldn't even begin to erode the pain that froze him in that spot, kneeling beside her, face buried in her hair.

"Sir!"

Booth's head snapped up and he blinked, looking around.

He was standing, looking down at his grandfather's headstone. His eyes flew to the ground beside him, but she wasn't there. She had vanished, no trace of blood left on the ground, where moments before it had been spilling out of her. He could smell her shampoo, feel her touch on his cheek and yet she was nowhere to be found. He looked down at his hands, expecting them to be covered in blood, but all that was there was a few pieces of dirt.

Was it all in my head? He wondered, his body trembling. It had felt real, so real in fact that his heart was pounding furiously and he was inhaling short, shallow breaths.

"Sir, are you alright?"

The voice that had startled him from his reverie cut through his thoughts again and Booth looked up. A man, one of the grounds attendants stood not ten feet away under a black umbrella. It had begun to rain much harder and he could tell without moving that he was soaked to the bone.

Bones! Her name suddenly hit him and he looked at his wrist in vain for the time.

Dammit, forgot my watch again!

"Sir do you…"

"No, I'm fine!" Booth finally answered. He slicked his hair back out of his face and hurried off through the cemetery in the direction of Brennan's apartment, hoping he hadn't been gone long.