Disclaimer: See initial chapter.

A/N: Re-post.

In spite of the relatively small amount of blood that had come from Sweets' wound, the palm of Brennan's hand was coated with the psychologist's blood. It had gotten into the cracks of her palm, and dried there. She found it difficult to wash the blood off of her hand, and scrubbed at it until her hand was red with the effort of ridding it of her friend's blood.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her cheeks were tear stained. She hadn't thought that she'd cried that much. There were dark circles beneath her eyes; she knew that they were more than likely the result of sleep interrupted by nightmares about Sweets dying in front of her. There was a smudge of blood on her cheek, and she wondered how it had gotten there. Her shirt also had a trace of Sweets' blood on it, and she couldn't seem to stop the sob that built up inside of her and tore its way out of her throat.

Sweets had lost consciousness a minute before the paramedics had arrived and whisked him out of her arms and to the hospital quicker than she could follow. She hadn't wanted to let him go, but Booth held her back, whispering comforting words that she couldn't even understand. It was the tone of his words which had finally gotten through to her more than the words themselves.

A knock on the bathroom door jarred her from her memories and she called out, "I'm almost done."

It was one of those private hospital bathrooms that doctors sent patients to when they wanted a urine sample. Brennan read the sign above the sink which detailed how a woman should clean herself with two wipes before peeing into the cup, and a man with just one. She wished that she had some wipes to rid herself of Sweets' blood.

"Bones?" The worry in Booth's voice was clear, even though the thick door that separated her from him. "You okay?"

"Yes," she answered, and then cleared her throat when Booth knocked again. "Yes, I'm almost done. I'll be out in a minute."

She met the reflection of her eyes in the mirror and willed her heart to stop its out-of-control hammering.

"Get a grip," she ordered herself. "It's just a little blood. Sweets didn't fall off that roof. Your dream didn't come true. He'll be fine. Booth said he would."

She ignored the shimmer of tears in her eyes, and squared her jaw. She turned the hot water on and attacked the spot of dried blood on her cheek. It was easier to remove than the blood on her palm. The blood on her shirt was not as easy to eradicate, but she scrubbed at it with her nails and a couple of paper towels.

Another knock sounded on the door, and Brennan jumped. She'd somehow only succeeded in making the blood stain run – turning the red spot into a larger, pink blotch on her white blouse.

"Just a minute," she called, her voice catching on the last syllable.

"Honey, it's me," Angela said. "Let me in?"

Brennan took a shaky breath and shut the water off. She unlocked the door, and Angela burst into the room, wrapping her in a hug and squeezing so tightly that Brennan found it difficult to breathe. She released her hold on Brennan and then shut the door behind them, locking it.

It wasn't until Brennan found herself sitting on the edge of the toilet that she realized her best friend had bag in her hand and was pulling out a tee-shirt. Angela tossed it to her, and helped her ease out of her ruined blouse.

"I know that it's not what you typically wear, but I was in a rush, and I just grabbed what I had on hand," Angela said apologetically.

"That's okay, Angela," Brennan said, eyeing the colorful, tie-dyed tee-shirt dubiously, wondering if it would fit her. "Thank you."

Her throat felt tight, like she was choking, and she couldn't seem to figure out how to put the tee-shirt on. It was a strange, out-of-body feeling, and Brennan wanted it to stop. Sweets wasn't dead. He hadn't fallen to his death. It had been Mr. Goodman who had fallen off of the top of the FBI building, after Booth shot him for shooting Sweets.

Sweets was alive. Mr. Goodman was dead. Her dream hadn't come true. It had been a horrible, terrible lie that had kept her awake for far too long.

She lifted the tee-shirt in her hands, and marveled that they were shaking. She was a woman of science and cold, hard facts. She wasn't prone to normal, human reactions like shock.

Angela took the tee-shirt from her, and, just like Brennan imagined she'd done countless times for her son, Michael, she coaxed Brennan into raising her arms up, over her head and then tugged the tee-shirt on over her head. Brennan felt like laughing, but what came out of her mouth was something halfway between a laugh and a sob.

Angela wrapped her in another hug. Brennan allowed herself to cry, knowing that the emotional release that came along with the expelling of tears would help her to think clearly once she was finished.

It was based on scientific fact. Tears, when linked to heavy emotions, contain protein-based hormones which are produced by the body when it's under stress. Crying was simply the body's way of releasing those chemicals.

When she'd finished crying, she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, and Angela released her after holding her for a few seconds longer.

"Thank you," Brennan murmured.

Angela gave her a watery smile. "You'd do the same for me."

"How is he?" Brennan had no idea how long she'd been in the bathroom, trying to wash away the remnants of Sweets' blood, but she had a feeling that it had been much longer than the few minutes she'd promised Booth.

Angela sniffed, and looked away. "The doctors haven't said anything yet, but Booth said that you acted quickly, and that Sweets has a very good chance of surviving. I just can't believe what happened. I mean, of all of the things that could have happened today, this was not a scenario that I had envisioned. Booth said that you'd tried to warn him? That you seemed to know something bad was going to happen. How did you know?"

Brennan closed her eyes and shook her head, internally debating whether or not to tell Angela about the dream. In the end, it was the plaintive look on her best friend's face which compelled her to tell Angela about the dream. It came spilling out of her in a torrent of words – the guilt that she felt for not telling Sweets about her dream a week ago; watching Sweets die night after night and waking with a scream dying in her throat; being unable to tell Booth about it; thinking she was going crazy; and hoping that she didn't sound like some crackpot psychic.

"Oh, honey," Angela said, gathering her into a hug once more, "none of this is your fault. You couldn't have known that your dream would come true."

"But, it didn't come true," Brennan said, pulling back. "Sweets was shot. He didn't fall."

"Maybe that's because you intervened," Angela hazarded. "Sweets would have died if you hadn't been there."

Brennan frowned. There were no facts to consider in this situation. Her recurring dreams were not based on facts, nor were her feelings that something was 'off.' Everything about this was speculation. Brennan didn't do well with pure speculation. She needed facts to sift through to determine the truth of what had happened.

"Maybe if I hadn't intervened, he wouldn't have been shot. Maybe Sweets would have been able to talk Mr. Goodman off the roof if Booth and I hadn't followed them. He's really very good at what he does. Maybe none of this would have happened if I hadn't let some stupid dream get the better of me."

Angela pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. She gave Brennan a thoughtful look – one that the forensic anthropologist was very familiar with – and crossed her arms over her chest.

"What do you think Dr. Sweets would say about this?"

Brennan closed her eyes and rubbed them. She was tired and her head was starting to ache, and she was sitting on a toilet seat in a hospital, feeling foolish. She turned Angela's question over in her mind, trying to understand it.

Brennan opened her eyes and glared at Angela. "How could I possibly know what Dr. Sweets would have to say about all of this? He's being operated on to have a bullet removed from his spine. I doubt that he'd have much to say about any of this."

Angela took a deep breath, and let it out, as she often did when striving to be patient with her. Brennan was familiar with this, and hated it because she had no idea what she'd done wrong – what she'd failed to understand.

"Sweetie," Angela said, and then she paused, and she tucked a stray hair behind Brennan's ear. "I know that this is hard, and that, in a small way, you blame yourself."

She held up a hand when Brennan opened her mouth to protest the accusation, and Brennan closed her mouth.

"What I think Dr. Sweets would say is that something triggered your intuition. What one might term as a sixth sense, something that you might not be able to put your finger on, but which you pick up on without realizing that you do. You know, like how the hair on the back of your neck stands up when you walk past a dark alley, but you don't know why until hours later you hear in the news about someone being attacked by a mugger lurking in that alley," Angela said.

"I don't think that's what Dr. Sweets would say," Brennan interrupted before Angela could add anymore to her outlandish story. "He'd tell me that this was not my fault, and he'd ask me to explain the dream in detail. He'd nod and frown and insert a comment, or ask a question whenever I came to a natural pause. He'd try to help me understand my psyche. He wouldn't talk to me about a sixth sense or intuition, because he knows that I'd scoff at it."

Angela smiled, and raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you know him very well, and like he knows you. "

"Yeah, Booth too. Ang, he can't die." Brennan felt tears burning her eyes again, but she didn't want to cry anymore, because her tears couldn't fix anything. They couldn't help Sweets make it through surgery. They couldn't save the psychologist's life, or make it so that he wouldn't be paralyzed.

"I know, honey. How about if we get out of this bathroom, and sit with the others." Angela held out a hand to her and pulled her up.

They both laughed when she stumbled and almost fell into the toilet. Angela bundled up Brennan's blouse and placed it in her bag, and then, arm-in-arm, they walked out of the bathroom.

Please take the time to review, and let me know if you would like more of this or not, so I know whether I should scrap this or continue to post. Thanks