Disclaimer: See initial chapter.

A/N: Please take the time to review; let's me know if I should share anymore with the rest of the world or not...thanks. :-)

It was a busy day at the lab. Brennan didn't have a second to spare for thoughts that weren't related to the case at hand. There was no room in her day for her to dwell upon the recurring dream. Not that she would have thought about the dream had she had any time for extraneous thought.

Brennan enjoyed her work. She was good at it, and bones never lied or otherwise deceived anyone. There was little confusion in her line of work, but there was plenty of confusion in Dr. Sweets' line of work. Analyzing people made for tricky business, and Brennan didn't see how what he did could be considered a science, even though she did respect Dr. Sweets and what he did.

People lied, even to themselves, and using a pseudo-science to sift through what was truth and what wasn't seemed iffy at best. Nothing that Dr. Sweets did was a black and white certainty, there could be holes. But, with her line of work, there were no holes; the science was solid, and complete. There were no unstable variables to deal with.

Mid-afternoon, Brennan went to the FBI building to meet with Booth to discuss the case. She brought along something for lunch for Booth, Sweets and herself. She had no idea what had prompted her to purchase something for Sweets, but had an inkling that it might have something to do with the dream.

"Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth, just the two people I wanted to see." Sweets waved at them from the hallway. The smile on his face caused Brennan's stomach to twist, and she frowned as she was reminded of the dream.

Brennan shook her head, and plastered a smile on her face, hoping that it didn't look as fake as it felt. If anyone could see through the façade, it'd be Sweets.

Sweets' smile fell as he walked closer to them. "What's wrong, Dr. Brennan?"

"Nothing," Brennan said, and she tried to make her smile look more genuine.

Sweets frowned. "Right, well, if I could see the two of you in my office; I have something I need to run by the both of you."

"Are you alright?" Booth murmured as they followed after Sweets.

Brennan nodded, but let her smile drop now that Sweets couldn't see her face. Something didn't feel right, and she didn't know why, or what it meant, or how or if the dream she'd been having factored into anything. She didn't believe in premonitions or 'feelings' or psychic abilities, but right now she had the funniest feeling in the pit of her stomach, and, as she followed after Sweets, the uneasiness only seemed to grow.

"Dr. Sweets, there you are," Andrew Hacker hailed.

To Brennan, he looked worried and out of breath, and her stomach lurched as an intense, irrational fear overtook her. Something was wrong, but, like in her dream, she wasn't afraid for herself or Booth, but for Sweets who'd turned mid-step at Hacker's summons. His face was open, and he didn't look the least bit afraid, just concerned over the tone of voice Hacker had used.

"There's a jumper on the roof," Hacker blurted out. He grasped Sweets' arm, and started pulling him in the opposite direction.

Brennan felt a shiver go down her spine, and then it was like everything around her slowed down. She could see particulates floating in the air as Sweets was being pulled along quickly behind the assistant director of the FBI, and yet to Brennan, it looked like everything was happening in slow motion – every facial expression magnified, every footfall exaggerated. It was eerie, and she didn't like it at all.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she wanted to shout something, like she had in her dream, but no sound came out of her mouth. Maybe if she could warn Sweets, he wouldn't die. But, as powerless as she'd been during the dream, she was even more powerless now. It shouldn't be like this. She should be able to make words, warn Sweets in some way that he shouldn't go up to the roof.

"What's wrong, Bones?" Booth asked as they raced along behind Sweets and Hacker.

"You have to stop him," Brennan said, surprised that her tongue seemed to have become unglued. "You have to stop Sweets."

"What? Why?" Booth looked at her as though he thought she was crazy, but he was still willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. He cast a worried look in Sweets' direction and then at her. "What's wrong? Do you know something that Hacker doesn't?"

"No, it's…"

How could she say that this was about a dream? What would Booth think of her if she admitted her fear that a dream she'd been having for the past several weeks was unfolding in front of her eyes right now, and she was powerless to stop it? Would he think her crazy, or attribute some kind of psychic powers to her which had manifested after the birth of their child?

"What? What is it?" And now Booth was worried, the same as she was.

He could tell something was wrong, she could see it on his face – the way his brows furrowed and his lips turned downward in a frown. His eyes darted to where Sweets and Hacker were disappearing around a corner, and he quickened his pace.

"You have to stop him, Booth," Brennan said.

She couldn't seem to get her mouth to cooperate with her brain, and that scared her, almost as much as the thought of Sweets plummeting to an untimely death did.

"What's going to happen?" Booth asked.

He was in full combat mode now, no longer questioning the reasoning behind her directives, but asking for criteria which would help him do whatever it was that he needed to do. This was love, and that thought in and of itself struck Brennan as completely unrelated and odd to have at a time like this.

"He's going to die," Brennan said, "I saw it. Booth, you have to save him. You can't let Sweets die."

"Don't worry, Bones, I won't." Booth sprinted ahead of her, and she hurried to catch up.

Dread felt like a cold rock in the pit of her stomach. It made her shiver, and all she could see as she ran after her men was Sweets' face frozen in a rictus of terror, falling to his death, over and over again. It felt like the dream, and for one hope-filled moment, Brennan wondered if she was dreaming. But the sound of the door leading to the roof being slammed open and then shutting jarred her, and she started running, not wanting to believe that it was really actually happening as she'd dreamt it.

When she made it to the roof, Sweets was approaching whoever the jumper was. Brennan couldn't see the man very clearly. In any case, she wasn't sure she would have recognized the man had she had a clearer view of him.

She did, however, see the gun he held in his hand. It was pointed directly at Sweets who kept walking slowly and steadily toward the would-be jumper. This was where dream differed from reality. There had been no gun in the dream, no Booth, no Hacker, just Sweets continuously falling to his death.

Hacker was standing at the door to the roof, and he grabbed her arm to hold her back as she attempted to go to Sweets. She fought against his hold, but he pulled her back, wrapping his arms around her, holding her against his back. He whispered an insistent, "Shh," in her ear when she opened her mouth to shout.

When she stopped struggling, he removed an arm from around her and pointed to where Booth was circling around Sweets and the deranged man. Booth had his gun pointed at the man Sweets had been fetched to talk down. Brennan knew that it wouldn't work, that this man would die, and that he would try to take Sweets with him. Knowing that didn't make her heart beat any less frantically.

"Who is he?" Brennan asked, keeping her voice pitched low so that she wouldn't interrupt whatever it was that Sweets was saying. In keeping with her dream, she couldn't hear his voice at all.

"Albert Goodman," Hacker said. His voice was shaky, and he finally let Brennan go. She took a step away from him, and kept her eyes on the three men. "He works in accounts. Apparently he caught his wife with another man, and learned that he has cancer, only six months left to live; all in the same day. I figured that if anyone could talk some sense into him it would be Dr. Sweets. He's good at that kind of thing."

"He's a man who feels that he's got nothing left to live for. In some cultures, what he's doing would be readily accepted. Suicide is not always seen as the coward's way out," Brennan explained.

Sometimes she wondered why others failed to see the different variables at work in the world around them, and she didn't understand why people tried to meddle in the lives of others without truly understanding them.

But, Dr. Sweets – Lance – Sweets – wasn't like that. He strived to understand what drove others to do what they did, and readily accepted different cultural norms and beliefs without outwardly judging them. It was just one of the many things she admired about the young man who'd, over the years that she'd known him, somehow managed to take up residence in a special place in her heart.

"None of this makes any sense," Brennan said the words aloud, hoping that they'd somehow break the terrible spell that had settled over the rooftop.

Booth's gun was trained on Mr. Goodman. Mr. Goodman's gun was pointed at Sweets. It was a standoff, and Brennan knew that it would all come down to who took the first shot. She hoped that it would be Booth, even though he didn't like to kill people. Surely he would shoot Mr. Goodman before he managed to coax Sweets onto the edge of the building, or shot the psychologist.

"Whoa, whoa, take it easy! Just put your gun down. No one needs to get hurt here."

It wasn't Sweets' voice that reached Brennan and Hacker, but Booth's, and he was sidestepping his way toward Mr. Goodman, holding his gun out to the side as though to look less threatening. Sweets had resumed his slow forward march toward the unstable man, and Brennan found herself wishing that he'd just stop and let the man kill himself. Mr. Goodman's life was not worth Sweets'. It was not an even trade.

Brennan wished that she could hear what Sweets was saying as he walked ever closer to the deranged man. More than anything, though, she wanted to toss a lasso over him or tackle him, anything to keep him from reaching the ledge that Mr. Goodman was standing on.

"You can't help me; no one can!" Mr. Goodman's voice was carried to them on the wind. "Just leave me the hell alone, and don't come any closer. I will shoot."

It sounded to Brennan like the man had been crying, but she felt no remorse for him. He should have seen the signs of his wife's infidelity well before he'd caught her in bed with another man, gone to the doctor sooner so that he'd at least have a chance to get treatment that might've saved his life, and he shouldn't have come into work waving a gun and threatening to kill himself.

Whatever Sweets was saying now, he was using his hands, and Brennan could imagine the look on his face. It would be one of compassion and understanding. It would be wasted on Mr. Goodman. The man wanted to die, and he would. Brennan could see that, anyone could.

"We've got to do something." Brennan turned toward Hacker.

The assistant director didn't even seem to hear her. His attention was focused on the drama unfolding in front of them. His hands were opening and closing in loose fists, and he was shifting from foot-to-foot, as though he wanted to rush forward and do something to stop the inevitable.

Brennan tugged on Hacker's sleeve, gaining his attention. "We should do something."

"What? He…oh my god." Hacker placed a hand over his mouth and lurched forward, pulling out of Brennan's grip.

She turned, and the world seemed to tilt as her vision tunneled. She wasn't even aware that she was moving until she was falling to her knees beside Sweets. The sound of the wind whipping around her drowned out that of the second gunshot, though she could hear a tiny popping sound, registered that Mr. Goodman's body fell backward, off the roof, that Booth was rushing toward the edge of the roof, looking over it – she could see and hear all of it, yet none of it. She hadn't even heard the first shot – the one that came from Mr. Goodman's gun and tore its way through Sweets' chest.

It happened all at once – so quickly, yet slowly. It was a dichotomous reality. One which Brennan would question later. She knew what was going to happen a split second before Mr. Goodman pulled the trigger, and she'd been powerless to do anything to stop it.

There was a small part of her which heard the gunshot in conjunction with the impact, but the sound didn't register. The crack of the shot didn't seem to reach her ears until she was kneeling on the rooftop beside Sweets, pressing her hand over a neat, round hole. There was very little blood, and she knew that it should mean something to her, but she couldn't seem to bring her thoughts into focus, just knew that it was important that she cover the wound.

It'd be better if she had something flat to press against it – like a driver's license. Not wanting to remove her hand from the wound, Brennan continued to apply pressure to it, as she fumbled to remove her Jeffersonian badge with her other hand. She quickly placed the badge against the wound, hoping that it would keep air from entering the wound, and yet allow air to exit.

The wound was in the upper right chest. And, judging by the lack of blood pooling onto the cement rooftop beneath Sweets, the bullet was still somewhere inside of the young psychologist. She hoped it wasn't lodged in his spine, but knew that hoping didn't necessarily make things a reality.

She'd watched Vincent Nigel-Murray die right in front of her when he'd been shot by a sniper in Booth's stead. There'd been so much blood pouring out of the chest wound. It had stained the lab floor. Though the janitors had managed to clean it up, she knew where Vincent Nigel-Murray's blood was spilled and knew that there were still traces of it that could be revealed with black light. It was nothing, and yet everything, like this.

Nigel-Murray had been talking, asking her not to send him home. Sweets' lips were moving, as they had been in the dream, but there was no sound coming from his mouth. The only thing Brennan heard was that of the wind whipping through her hair.

"Bones." Booth's voice startled her and she tore her eyes away from Sweets' face to look at him. He had a hand on her shoulder. It was warm. Grounding.

"You're doing good," he said, and he wiped at something on her face with the pad of his thumb. Tears. She wasn't even aware that they were falling, and until Booth wrapped an arm around her shoulders, she hadn't noticed that she was shaking.

"Just keep your hand right there. Paramedics are on their way. He'll be okay."

Booth placed his hand over hers, and gave her a tight smile. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he turned his gaze toward Sweets.

"Shh…" Booth was speaking to Sweets whose lips were still moving soundlessly, and the psychologist stopped trying to talk. Instead, he sought out Booth's eyes with his own, as though trying to communicate to the agent through them.

Brennan could see fear and panic reflected in Sweets' eyes. She wanted to ease Sweets' pain and take away his fear, but she couldn't seem to get her mouth to cooperate with her brain.

Sweets opened his mouth and closed it. When he opened it again, he licked his lips, and then spoke a single word which Brennan had to lean over his mouth to hear.

"Hurts."

"I know it hurts, but you're going to be okay," Brennan said with as much confidence as she could muster. "You didn't fall off the roof. You're going to be okay."

She brushed the hair off of his forehead, and pressed her lips to it as she would have done to Christine had Christine scraped her knee, or gotten a 'boo-boo' as Booth called it. Kisses seemed to help stem the flow of tears for her daughter, and though Sweets wasn't crying, he was in pain. She knew it was foolish, that kisses didn't really make the pain go away, but there was little else she could do for Sweets.

"You're going to be okay, Sweets," she said, her heart lurching in her chest when Sweets blinked slowly, and his breathing started to falter.