Pain… Cold… Dark… Pain… Sharp..? Panic.

Sweets was struggling to get his thoughts straight. He was lying on his side on something that felt wooden. Pain was screaming throughout his body. His head was pounding and his whole body was aching. He thought something was wrong with his arm though because it hurt the most.

It was cold. Very cold. And he wasn't one of those people who was cold when it was 80 degrees outside. He was one of those people who ran a fan all year round. He suddenly realized that part of his chills must have to do with the fact that he didn't have any clothes on except for his boxers. He went to the next thing his groggy mind brought up.

It was dark. Even with the short flicker of his eyes he was sure of it. It wasn't the dark that you saw when you walked into a room without the lights. No, it was a dark so thick that you could almost feel it. You could feel it suffocating you, forcing the darkest things in your mind to start emerging and make you think about all the people or things that could be hidden inside said darkness.

The pain. It was horrible. He tried to move his arm and couldn't help the yell of pain that escaped him. He clenched his teeth together and hissed. He tried to think of how he could have injured it this horribly, but the last thing he could remember was being at the Jeffersonian with the whole Jeffersonian crew… and Booth. He wasn't really part of the Jeffersonian. Had he been mugged? That would explain the pain and the darkness. He was missing his clothes too. Was the person who mugged him that desperate? He still didn't feel like he had the strength to open his eyes for very long so inch by inch he moved his foot out to try and find out where he was.

It was sharp. His foot touched something and he pulled back instinctively. It felt like glass. That went along with his being mugged and left in an alleyway theory. But why did the floor feel wooden then? He peeled his eyes open again only to find the same darkness as before. No street lights anywhere, not even the occasional headlights of a car. He felt something near his hands and reached out for it. Strange… His hands seemed to be moving together. They seemed to be stuck together by some invisible glue. So when he moved his good arm it also moved his bad one. He hissed and grabbed hold of the thing near his hand. It was a flashlight. He quickly pressed the button to turn it on.

Panic. He was in a crate, or more accurately a coffin. Sweet's breathing picked up to near hyperventilation and adrenaline poured through his veins. He wasn't groggy anymore. The walls were glistening and upon further inspection he found that the walls had jagged pieces of glass sticking out of them. He realized that's what his foot had touched earlier. He also realized that the invisible glue was actually a zip tie. But was the coffin actually underground? Or could it possibly be sitting on a table somewhere? If he shoved hard enough on the side of the coffin he should be able to knock it over if it was. But the glass would dig into him and who knew whether or not the glass was coated with drugs or not.

"HEY!" he yelled. "LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

His voice reached no one.

Hot tears raced to his eyes. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. Had he done something stupid? Had he gotten involved in a case he shouldn't have? Or could this possibly just be some sick twisted prank?

"Ha ha. Very funny, guys! Can you let me out of here now?"

No one answered.

'Okay, Lance. Calm down. Take deep breaths and try and think back to how you got here.'

He tried as hard as he could, but nothing would come back to him. What had he been doing at the Jeffersonian? Oh, right! He'd been taking over a profile for Booth. Wherever Brennan was Booth was sure to be close. Who had he done the profile on though? Was that why he was here? Did some psycho decide that he was a threat to them? Then wouldn't he be dead?

Question after question raced through his mind. Whatever drugs they had put in his system were definitely doing the trick. He shone the flashlight around again and saw something in the corner of the coffin. He grimaced. It was a recording device of some kind.

He wondered whether or not he should use it. Should he try and recall what had happened? Or should he just say his name so they'd be able to identify the body if he died?

Sweets slowly readjusted his arm and hoped Booth and Brennan would find him. Sooner rather than later.

A/N: Sorry for the late update, guys. My laptop crashed and I had to wait for my new one.