Disclaimer: See initial chapter.

A/N:Thanks to all those who've reviewed, and especially those I'm unable to reply to individually.

"I hear that I have you to thank for saving my life," Sweets said without looking at her. His words were spoken tonelessly. His face was turned away, toward the window, as it had been all that week. It seemed to Brennan as though he was trying to shut everyone out.

The psychological term for that would be dissociation, but Brennan doubted that Sweets appreciate her sharing that insight with him right now. He had dark circles under his eyes; she knew he hadn't been sleeping well, even though he claimed that all he did was sleep. Worse yet, was that his eyes were hollow, and lacked their usual luster and youthful innocence.

Sweets was much too pale, and the doctors were concerned about his lack of appetite, as well as his growing apathy. He was not himself, and refused to talk with the hospital psychologist.

Brennan moved around to the other side of the bed, where she knew that, unless he made a concerted effort to turn away, he'd have to look at her. She placed a hand on the psychologist's arm when he attempted to turn away from her.

"While it is true that I performed a field medical procedure which more than likely helped keep air from entering your wound, I can hardly lay claim to saving your life…"

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan," Sweets cut her off before she could go any further in her explanation of how his life had been saved. His voice was void of emotion, his composure tense, yet, to Brennan, he looked even more fragile than when he'd broken down in her arms.

It had been two weeks since Sweets had learned of his paraplegia, and he'd been despondent, not wanting to see anyone. Not that it had stopped Booth, or her, from visiting him. They were, as per his paperwork, his medical proxies, and they had every right to check up on him. His doctors did not believe he was in the right frame of mind to be making medical decisions.

"You have nothing to thank me for," Brennan said, believing it.

She still had not been able to shake the irrational guilt she felt for what had happened to Sweets. Intellectually, she knew that she wasn't responsible, that the recurring dreams she'd been having prior to Mr. Goodman's devolvement were not responsible for Sweets' paralysis.

"You know," Sweets said, after a pause. He looked up at Brennan, and she could see raw vulnerability in his eyes.

"I've been wrestling with the thought that it would have been better had Mr. Goodman killed me, or if…" he chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, "or if I'd have fallen off that roof with him."

Brennan shuddered and pressed her fingers to her lips as images from the dream, which she kept having. She didn't know why she kept having the dream. Sweets had survived, but in her dream, he didn't, and, in essence, she was being forced to watch him die night after night. It was a kind of torture.

"I keep thinking about it, running all of the possible scenarios through my mind. In one of them," Sweets stopped speaking, looked away and cleared his throat before looking at her once more. "In one of them, I get up on that ledge with Mr. Goodman and…"

"You fall," Brennan interrupted. She sat on the edge of Sweets' bed and grabbed his hand, ignoring the confused look that Sweets shot in her direction.

"In one of them, you attempt to talk Mr. Goodman down, but…I don't know, maybe there's a slight wind, or maybe you grapple with the gun, and then you just…fall," Brennan tried to say it matter-of-factly, but her breath hitched, and she had to take a deep breath.

"I know," Brennan said, and she clutched Sweets' hand tightly, hoping that he would understand.

"I know because I've been dreaming about it since before Mr. Goodman," Brennan confessed. "For two weeks before that day, I dreamt of you clinging to the side of a building, and then you'd slip, and you'd fall, and you'd die."

Brennan closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she saw Sweets watching her with a familiar look of concern and compassion. For some reason, even though she was used to seeing such looks from the psychologist, it made her feel like crying.

Taking a shaky breath, she continued, "And, even though that isn't what happened, the dream keeps coming, and I wake up trying to keep it from happening again."

Sweets drew her into a half hug. It was clumsy and Brennan accidentally elbowed Sweets in the groin. His sharp intake of breath was a reaction that made her smile. She knew what the doctors had said, but it was good to have tangible proof that the psychologist had a fully functional groin.

Brennan made to move away, to give Sweets some space, but he held onto her, his nose pressed against her hair.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," he said, lying back. "I'm sure that this," he gestured toward the lower half of his body, "hasn't been easy on you and Booth. I'm sorry that I made you my medical surrogates; I meant to talk to you about it, but…"

"What? I just told you that I've been dreaming about you plummeting to your death for weeks before it almost happened, and all you can do is apologize for getting shot before you could tell Booth and I that you'd named us as your medical proxies?" Brennan smacked him on the back of his head and shifted her weight on the bed so that she could look him in the eye.

"Ouch!" Sweets scowled at her and rubbed at the back of his head. "That really hurt."

Brennan didn't know what overcame her as she gave into the illogical impulse to laugh, and she smacked the back of Sweets' head again. The look he gave her just made her laugh all the harder, and soon, he was laughing with her, tears streaming down his face.

That's how Booth walked in on them – both of them doubled over with laughter, snot coming from their noses, and eyes red-rimmed. He'd brought Christine with him, and both of them watched the two of them, Booth whispering something to their daughter that Brennan couldn't hear. Whatever it was had Christine clapping and giggling right along with them.

When the laughter subsided, Sweets looked a little more like his old self. Young, though no longer carefree, he had some color back in his cheeks and no longer looked as though he was a non-participant in his own life. Brennan wasn't sure if the psychologist had turned the proverbial corner in his personal recovery, or not, but she felt as though a great weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. She knew that, tonight, she wouldn't dream about Dr. Sweets falling off of the top of the FBI building to his death. No, tonight, she'd dream about something else, or maybe her sleep would be dream free.

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