A/N: Not much new to say here, everyone. You are awesome. Your reviews make my day. This is another quick update (is anyone falling onto their keyboards from shock?), though it is a little shorter. Hope you enjoy. Song is "Darkest Things" by the Submarines. Gorgeous.

Chapter Five

Darkest Things

The more delicate the task
You find the shakier the hand
You try to understand and fight it
All that you need
Has brought you to your knees
Trembling with greed still you fight it

And it's funny how the darkest things
You only find when you've been searching
Don't back down from what you need
Guiltiness it only makes you mean

Brennan crumbled to the ground in the doorway.

For the first instant, she could only gasp for breath. The pain hit her at once, she couldn't yet specify the source.

Then, the shock dissolved somewhat, leaving Brennan's left thigh feeling as though it was on fire.

For a moment she was frozen, panicked. But then logic kicked in and Brennan realized that, if it had gotten the femoral artery, she would have bled out in a matter of seconds, making her at the very least unconscious by now.

His footsteps were pounding up the hallway, coming to collect her. Gritting her teeth through the pain, Brennan crawled just inside the door and used her right foot to slam it closed.

Brennan wrenched one hand free of the ties behind her back, burning her wrist on the ropes. Luckily it seemed the man had been so overcome with his own lust that his bindings had been unusually sloppy.

Wincing, Brennan pulled herself to her feet, which only quickened the flow of blood down her leg; she'd deal with that in a moment.

Like every other door she'd encountered, there was no lock. But the room around her was stocked with boxes, and Brennan managed to push a nearby pile in front of the door just as the knob turned.

It opened an inch and no more. She heard him curse, frustrated, but Brennan knew the barrier wouldn't hold for very long.

She limped as fast as she could manage over to the panel that was propped open from the floor. The stairs were stripped wood, unstable looking, and whatever subbasement they led to was dark and uncertain.

But, as another gunshot exploded behind her, wild and aimless through the tiny opening in the door, it seemed like her only choice.

With difficulty, her thigh burning more than ever, Brennan lowered herself through the panel and stood on the stairs, all her weight on her right side. When she'd hobbled low enough, she grabbed the stringing hanging from the panel door and pulled it closed above her.

Again, there was no lock, only a small handle. Her eyes adjusting to the darkness, Brennan surveyed the room, which was again crowded with a random assortment of objects stacked around for storage.

At the bottom of the stairs, inexplicably, there was a large garbage can full of what appeared to be fake bamboo sticks. From her now crouched position on the stairs, Brennan slowly slid down a few until she could reach one, then used its weight to stand up.

She maneuvered the flimsy stick carefully through the tiny handle on the door, not at all confident in its ability to keep the door closed but unable to think of an alternative, particularly as she was beginning to feel foggy and lightheaded, her vision swimming slightly in front of her.

Sitting again, Brennan ran her hands over her leg until she found the source of the bleeding. Her jeans were soaked through now, and she could feel blood dripping even below her knee. Brennan quickly pulled off her shirt, leaving her only in the thin white camisole she'd been wearing underneath, and tied the fabric tightly around the wound.

The pressure felt like she was feeding a fire,and Brennan bit down hard on her lip to keep from crying out.

She sat huddled on the stairs, shivering, for a long minute until she began to feel more focused. Then, taking her time, she pushed herself to her feet and began hobbling, leaning on various boxes and bins as she did so, to the far corner of the room.

If nothing else, she would put off this final moment as long as possible.

She sank to the ground behind several stacks of boxes. Her entire leg was tingling unpleasantly, and the white shirt she'd used a tourniquet was already entirely red.

Brennan leaned against the wall, her eyes drifting closed.

~(B*B)~

Booth's heartbeat thudded in his ears as he and Angela followed Cam out of Brennan's office onto the platform. This was the last chance. Something had to turn up.

As soon as they reached the platform, Cam led him to a monitor and tapped her knuckle against it. "This is the list we got."

The words on the screen seemed to blur and meld together, and Booth leaned too close, his eyes wide, scanning them.

His heart skittered.

"Greg Thomas."

Cam didn't even ask for clarification, to know the case. "Okay. Greg Thomas. Now we can find him."

"He…oh, God. Oh, God, how could I not have remembered that…"

Angela was already typing at the computer next to him. "Greg Thomas…divorced, he lives in an apartment in DC….an apartment wouldn't have a basement would it?"

"Where does he work, could he have them there?" Cam asked. Booth was barely aware of what was going on around him. He felt sick with self loathing.

It was so obvious. He should have remembered.

Hodgins spoke up, "The results of Hannah's clothes may tell you that…evidence of paint…acrylic paint, which is unusual. Also ink and turpentine fragments, evidence of wood shavings-"

"It's an art studio," Angela interrupted. "Every art studio smells like paint and turpentine." She pinned her gaze on Booth, hope lighting her eyes for the first time all day. "Was he an artist?"

"No…no but his sister was." He shook his head, determination filling him, his whole body buzzing with adrenaline. He started to move. "Casey Thomas, okay? She owned a studio, it closed after she died…I know the general direction, look up the address and send it to me…."

"Seeley." Cam's voice stopped him when he was already off the platform. "You can't go alone."

He shook his head one, irritated, but unwilling to waste time arguing. "Wait five minutes then call for back up."

Without waiting for an answer, Booth spun and sprinted the rest of the way out of the lab.

~(B*B)~

"I found Greg Thomas," Sweets said, breaking the tense silence of the past ten minutes, that had been broken only by Cam's tense call for backup, which she'd disappeared right after.

The others, though, had moved into Angela's office and were silent, waiting. Hodgins and Angela sat side by side on the couch, their hands linked between them. Sweets was the desk, holding file, while Hannah was cross legged in the floor, looking lost in thought.

The others all blinked at the young psychologist. They'd nearly forgotten to be curious about the motivation behind this man's revenge, not when Brennan's fate was so uncertain.

It was Hannah, though, who finally asked, "Who was he?"

"I remembered his name from one of my files…but we didn't flag it because he wasn't a criminal, obviously, and the case was closed. It was one of Booth's first years with the bureau, just before he got transferred to major homicide. He did a year or so with the kidnapping division."

Everyone was giving Sweets their attention now, just glad to have something to focus on.

"There was this serial kidnapper, kind of like the gravedigger. He went after rich guys, took two different members of their families and had separate ransoms for each one. If you didn't pay up in the time limit, he'd leave the body of one of them somewhere he knew it would be found. Usually then, people would pay for the second one…but inevitably, they would already be dead, same time as the first one."

"That's horrible," Hannah murmured.

"Yeah. Anyway, Greg Thomas was one of his targets. He owned a big time real estate company, so money wise, he was the perfect target. This guy kidnapped his wife and his younger sister and demanded a ransom for each one.

"Booth was working the case…and he had to go with the standard FBI policy, advising no payment. Greg listened to him…for awhile. Says he started doing his own research into this kidnapper, and he changed his mind. Told Booth he wanted to pay up."

"But?" Hodgins asked.

"It was too late, too close to the deadline. Banks only let you withdraw a certain amount at a time…he barely had enough time to get enough money together for one."

Understanding was dawning in Hannah's eyes. "So…"

"He had to choose," Angela put in quietly.

Sweets nodded. "Yes. He chose his wife, and she was let go. The kidnapper called and said he'd extend the deadline another day….but after Greg dumped the money, his sister turned up dead anyway. After he dumped that body, Booth was able to catch the guy."

A thick silence hung over them after that. Eventually though, Angela said, a catch in her voice, "What if that's what happens to us? What if we're too late and Brennan's already…." She paused, then looked over at Hannah, holding her gaze. "You were there. You were with him…do you think there's a chance? That she's…that she's still alive."

Hannah closed her eyes, grimacing. She was thinking about the assertion that Greg hadn't been interested in hurting them, only Booth. The fact that the gun seemed to be his only weapon rather than some slow torture device.

But she said, in a small voice, "Maybe. A chance."

Angela looked away. "You don't believe it. Not really."

~(B*B)~

Booth unlocked the door at the bottom of the stairwell and burst into the basement.

He was here.

His gun drawn, Booth stood frozen, listening, trying to discern any sound other than his own thundering pulse.

For a moment nothing. Then, vaguely, he heard movement.

Thirty seconds later, Booth whipped into view in a doorway, pointing his gun. "Don't move!"

Greg looked up from a stack of boxes he was pushing, and for just a second, shock and anger and fear flickered across his face. But then he composed himself and merely smiled in welcome. "Well done, Agent Booth. You found me."

A small knot of panic was working its way up Booth's throat. The only thing he registered was Bones absence. But he kept a tight grip on the gun and nearly growled at Greg, "Where is she?"

"Clever of you to figure everything out. And find me, too. But I'm afraid, once again, it's just a little too late."

It felt like something inside of Booth's chest was exploding, shooting sparks through his whole body. He was physically shaking, from all the fear and panic and rage pushing to burst from him. "Where is she?"

"Not a good feeling, is it, Agent?" Greg asked coldly. As he spoke, he reached into his pocket.

Booth took an immediate step forward. "Make another move, I dare you. Give me a reason to shoot you, I swear to God there is nothing I want more."

Greg only laughed. "I don't care if you shoot me. That means nothing to me right now." He reached up and tugged on his hair, which turned out to be a well fitted wig. Greg let it drop to the floor. He pointed to the long scar winding across his bald scalp. "Brain tumors. They say this one's inoperable, and the chemo did shit for it, so…" He shrugged. "I've got a couple good months left. But thanks to you, I've done this whole thing alone. No sister. No wife, no kids. No one." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun, holding in his hand casually.

Booth took another step forward. "Drop it, now."

"Oh, don't worry about this thing," Greg said reassuringly. "I wouldn't want to kill you….you don't get off that easy. I didn't, after all." A wicked grin spread across his face. "I'd watch where you're stepping though. Slick floor."

Before he could stop himself, Booth glanced down, and his stomach pitched forward.

There was a pool of blood underneath him. And though there were a few splatter marks around it, for the most part, the blood seemed contained.

It took all Booth's efforts to keep from squeezing the trigger, from sending a bullet into this smug bastards face. "Where is she?"

"She's already been taken care of." His smile stretched. "I told you someone would have to die, Agent Booth. You couldn't save both of them. Just like me."

Greg lifted his gun. Booth aimed at his leg and fired, at the same moment the man turned his own gun on his head, just against his scar and fired.

Booth stood over him, staring at the crumpled man, dead in a pool of his blood.

She's already been taken care of.

I told you someone would have to die here.

His gut twisting, Booth fell hard to his knees, grabbing the nearest box (empty except for a few paint brushes) and retched into it.

After a moment, sweaty and shaky, Booth realized something.

Greg had looked panicked when he'd arrived. Panicked and angry. Like his plan hadn't worked.

Booth seized on that.

Before he could even come up with a plan, her name formed in his throat and rose on its own accord, a raw, desperate plea. "Bones!"

Getting shakily to his feet, Booth moved out of the room and into the hallway, voice stronger as he repeated, "Bones!"

He moved down the narrow space, flinging open doors to rooms empty and tiny. He continued shouting her name, his name for her, until it was echoing off the walls, filling the room, swirling around him.

He tore down every hallway of the basement, looked in every room. He found the room where they'd likely been held, where there were still more splatters of blood on the floor, though dark and completely dry.

Booth went upstairs to the main floor and called out to her, ignoring the fact that the door had been locked from the outside when he'd gotten there. When there was still no answer, he went through the basement yet again, still calling her name.

"Bones!" By this time, his voice was scratchy and unsteady, but it didn't affect the volume.

This, her nickname, over and over, was the sound that greeted Cam and the FBI agents who'd been called in as backup.

When they found him in the hallway where he'd started, Booth didn't even notice their presence, never breaking from the steady stream of yells.

Cam approached him tentatively and reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder as Booth flung open a door for the third time. "Seeley?"

He glanced over at her, a strange, unfocused look in his eyes. Then, waving a hand vaguely at a nearby door, he muttered, "He's in there, he's dead. Shot himself."

The FBI agents disappeared into the room, but Cam merely took a few paces back so she could peer in. Her gaze first found the dead man, the pool of blood beneath his head. And then she saw the smears in the doorway, a good distance away from Greg Thomas' body.

"Seeley," Cam's voice was gentle. "Is she…"

"She's alive," he shook his head fervently. "She's alive. BONES!"

"Did he say that?" Cam asked quietly.

"No," Booth muttered dismissively before resuming his yelling, "Bones!"

Cam touched his shoulder. "Seeley…"

He shook her off, striding down the hallway, walking the same route yet again. "Bones!"

For the next ten minutes, Cam watched silently as Booth continued to fill the halls with Brennan's nickname, while the other agents dealt with the crime scene.

When Booth was circling the square hallway for probably the seventh time, still calling for Bones just as fervently as before, Cam decided she couldn't watch him anymore.

Cam approached him slowly and took hold of both of his arms. Immediately, she could feel how violently he was trembling.

"Seeley-"

"She's alive," Booth insisted.

"Okay-"

"We still would've found her, I didn't find her, she's alive…"

"Okay, but….it's been about three hours since he brought Hannah back-"

"No."

"-and there's a lot of blood on the floor, and there's no drip pattern-"

"Shut up!" Booth's voice cracked. He stared at Cam, chest heaving. There were tears in her eyes, and Booth couldn't accept what that meant. "She, she…she isn't dead, I'd know if she was, she isn't. I…." He backed away, roaring again, "Bones!"

"She isn't here, Booth. Okay?" Sympathy and sadness welled in Cam's dark eyes. "She's not."

Slowly, Booth's face crumpled, childlike. "I…no. She…Bones!" The last attempt at a yell died in his throat; it came out more like the beginning of a sob. Then, nearly whimpering, "B…Bones…"

Booth wrapped his arms around his middle; he was cracking open, and it was all he could do to hold together the broken pieces.

His insides were dissolving, and Booth was sliding to the ground without even realizing it. Waves of pain, physical and very, very real, ripped through his body.

Cam's hand rested on his back, rubbing circles.

"Where is she?" He asked, his voice unrecognizable, like a small child. "Where…where is she?"

"I'm so sorry," Cam's voice came to him through a fog. "I am so, so sorry."

A/N: So that's all for this one. Another cliffhanger, yes, but do what you've been doing and leave those lovely reviews (I love knowing what you thought about everything that happened) and I'll be doing my best to update in the next few days. As always, thanks for reading. We can survive this hiatus together through the power of fic.