Jeffersonian Museum, West Wing, Mitchell Exhibition Hall
Funny, he didn't even feel hitting the hard tile of the floor.
He was on his back, one leg awkwardly bent back up underneath him, but he barely felt it given everything else that was wrong with him. All of his senses were tinged with a red haze of pain, but his gut felt like someone had speared him with a white-hot poker and given it a good stir.
Women and children were screaming and male voices were trying to sooth them, but one shout stood out over the ruckus, "Clear!" He tried lifting his head to see what was going on, but the effort was too much. Instead he was stuck with a view of the small dusty cobwebs between the light fixtures on the ceiling.
He could barely breathe. It almost felt like he was drowning. He tried to crack open the vest but his fingers didn't seem to have any strength and he gave up.
Afraid of what he might find, he reached under the edge of his vest and carefully touched himself… hot and sticky wet. With difficulty he raised a bloody hand into view then let it drop at his side.
He felt like someone was sitting on his chest, and the struggle to breathe was taking its toll. His vision began to narrow with oxygen deprivation.
But his hearing, at least in the good ear, was fine. He heard running footsteps, then felt tugs at his vest as others shouted in the background.
"Oh shit…" That one was nearby.
He didn't recognize the SWAT trooper who appeared over him. He turned his head and shouted, "Man down over here!" He repeated it into his radio, but Booth couldn't make out the response. "Hang in there buddy, help's on the way."
With what little strength he had Booth grabbed at him with his left arm and gasped out a warning, "…hostages… bomb…"
"They're all ok, they're clear. I'm gonna drag you farther away from the bomb for the EMTs so they can work on ya."
He'd done it. This time he'd managed to save her and her child. He'd saved all of them. If he didn't make it he could die happy. He ought to be smiling.
But why were his cheeks wet?
The other man disappeared from his view. Then a second later he felt rough hands at his shoulders.
"This is probably gonna hurt."
He struggled to speak, "Tell her I… tell Bones…"
He was moved and sure as fuck it really hurt. Seized in a vice-grip of pain, he couldn't finish the words. He was getting cold. Hell, he couldn't even breathe. He closed his eyes…
Oh God, this must really be it…
Stark fear almost displaced the pain. He so wanted to live. In dying he would let down the people he loved most…
I'm sorry, Parker. Sorry, Temperance.
He was forgetting something else... oh yes, the Act of Contrition he learned back in parochial school…
Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended…
Something jarred him again, sending more waves of pain cascading through him, and he heard himself cry out.
"Sorry, EOD says we're still too close. Gotta move you one more time, just a little farther…" The interrupting voice sounded further away now.
This time it was even more excruciating. Muscles seized in agony, forcing the last air from his lungs.
He didn't get to finish his prayer…
Instead, his very last thought was the half-formed, absurd realization that he'd pissed all over himself.