13. Stoic
His face was emotionless. His body tense. His knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel, forcing away the onslaught of emotions he knew would eventually come.
Beside him, her face was flushed, tear-strained. Her body wracking with sobs. She made no attempt to hide her tears from him, feeling enough for the both of them in that moment.
He sat stoically, knowing that if he cried he wouldn't be able to stop, she wouldn't be able to stop. So he let the overwhelming sense of loss, of sadness, of anger, of guilt, eat at him until he was stripped bare.
They'd lay in bed for several hours, him holding her as she cried, not a word spoken between them. Eventually, her body stilled, relaxing in his arms, her face, although still wet with tears, softened as she nestled herself against him.
Only when he knew she was asleep did he finally cry. Silent tears tracking down his cheeks, harsh breaths forcing their way out of his lungs as he mourned the loss of one of his best friends.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this. They weren't supposed to use Sweets' body to uncover who was behind the conspiracy, and yet he knew that if the psychologist was able to he would insist on an autopsy, on Bones and the squints studying his body and his bones, so they could bring the killer, his killer, to justice.
He tried telling himself that Sweets was in a better place, but how could he believe that when his friend had left behind the love of his life and their unborn baby.
It should have been me.
No.
It should have been no one.
He finally succumbed to sleep, vowing that he would bring Sweets justice, whatever it took.