It wasn't long at all before I was taken off the drugs entirely and as I got up and moved on my own more often, the hospital grew more accommodating - you know, less like a 'hell without brimstone' and more like a 'tolerable purgatory with cable and sweets.' By Saturday afternoon I was gritting my teeth and walking with only a slight bend in my spine all the way down the hall and back to my room. By Monday I could walk with my back straight, not even needing to clench my fists to deal with discomfort. There was an uncomfortable tugging over the stab wound; the bandage adhesive pulled at my skin but it didn't hurt. It was far better to have a wide band-aid than a freakin' huge gauze wrap.

Of course, my hand was still in a cast, but I'd found it hurt less to move my wrist more when my arm was in a sling, so the nurses taught me how to make slings myself in case of emergency, and I kept my arm in those. On Sunday I had a scan taken of my wrist; although the ligament was still torn, they said that, compared to last week, there was marked improvement. This raised my spirits but didn't give me any delusions of a month-long complete recovery; the effects would still be present even after the ligament completely healed, and I should really see a physical therapist about that.

I didn't have a say in it, because Hodgins wouldn't listen to me, but he got the prescription for a good pain medication that had a low risk of addiction and he sent that to Cantilever. He had also started looking for a good physical therapist, because if my wrist went unattended, then even holding it still and casted could do harm - not allowing the muscles to readjust and to cramp could spell out very, very bad news for me in the future if I ever needed to use my wrist for some reason but couldn't.

The hospital didn't press the paternity issue, and neither did Booth, but I knew it was on his conscience because a couple times after Parker's visit - Rebecca was nice but she and I didn't talk much. I wasn't sure how she felt about me but I didn't plan on camping out in her living room and watching bad rom-coms, so I didn't particularly care about her opinion beyond where Parker was concerned. - he brought Parker back. Since I couldn't do much, I usually just read his Boxcar Childrenbook to him or helped him with his counting homework. It didn't go over my head that Booth had likely been the one to suggest the more frequent visits to Rebecca, and I also didn't miss that he was making his new kid a more frequent factor of his son's life.

I decided to hold off judgment on that.

The hospital finally decided that, provided that there was someone with me to tend to any medical emergencies, I could be dismissed on Tuesday - almost two weeks since I'd been admitted. I think Brennan being a doctor had something to do with it - although she didn't have an M.D., being an anthropologist meant she was well-versed with human anatomy and biology. I was pretty damn sick of the hospital by that point, anyway, so it was all fine with me. Although I wouldn't be able to go to my own apartment, I didn't think I'd be missing much. Even if I could have, Angela probably would have forced me to stay with one of them, even if it killed her. I really did appreciate the care and consideration she was putting into my recovery, and the tactfulness she demonstrated with the paternity issue. Hell, no one mentions it to me unless they're talking about the legality where the hospital is involved with my recovery - it's like they think I'll either break down in tears or have a psychotic devolution.

Tuesday afternoon, after I was discharged, I was offered a wheelchair or a crutch. I suppose they didn't take into account that in the same fight that resulted in my stabbing, I also sprained my wrist; I wasn't quite willing to attempt to master the challenge of pushing a wheelchair or holding onto a crutch, so instead I decided to just adapt to my own injuries without the aid of equipment.

Angela bought me some new clothes from the store without telling me, so that I couldn't argue. It wasn't like she was buying me some fancy outfits to say sorry your life is royally screwed up- she just bought some basics; a few loose shirts, an oversized sweater (yes! I can't believe she had actually forsaken her clothing style to get what she knew I'd like) and several sets of pajama pants, the sweater-like material full-length and loose, with elastic to keep it up around the waist. She explained that since the doctors didn't want jeans constantly rubbing at the formerly-stitched area, she figured that soft fabric and elastic bands would be less painful and less risky. I had to agree, and the clothing covered all but was loose and comfortable at the same time.

Win-win for me.

And then there was a case that was introduced as Brennan scanned over the discharge papers, Booth staying oddly close to me like he was worried I'd fall over. I was about two seconds away from asking how I was getting on the case of a body found underground before I remembered: I really am Zach, Hodgins, Angela, and Brennan's colleague, working under a paid internship. Score!Which reminded me - I need to go by the bar and tell them I'm quitting soon. It's going to be the best trip to the bar ever!

So, despite the trauma it took to my mind and body to get to this point, overall, this is the best month of my life - I got a good, well-paying job that I actually like, a really good insurance, and a means of sheltering myself without as much worry of criminal activity. That was all basics; it didn't even go into the detail of my friends visiting me at the hospital and trying to accommodate, or gaining a little brother and father.

Before we left the hospital, though, I asked Brennan about getting paternity tests run "just to be certain." I could have asked a doctor but they probably would have brought Booth into the conversation. Brennan was tactful enough when she knew the people involved, so she knew that I asked her alone on purpose. She said the Jeffersonian could run them and the results wouldn't take as long.

Another thing I was all for. My personal opinions were mixed; now, there's a certain roominess in the fact, where it could have been a fluke or mix-up or a doctor or nurse's screw-up, but if the Jeffersonian gets a match with the intention of matching paternity, then there's absolutely no reason to doubt it. I mean - Booth would have been in high school when I was conceived, and that fit what little I knew of my own circumstances. If we have that irrefutable evidence, then there isn't a way I can try to weasel out of Booth's sense of responsibility. Still, knowing sooner was better than knowing later.

A forensics unit was escorting me down through the tunnels towards the corpse, likely at Brennan's insistence beforehand. It was dark on its own, but the unit had a lot of flashlights and I insisted that, no matter what Brennan said, I could hold my own. Walking a while was a task, but unless I actually started to hurt, I could handle it. My steps were less fluid than they used to be but I was moving, getting from point A to point B without being carried, and that counted as a win, in my opinion.

I held a handheld radio in one hand. I'd wanted to bring my messenger bag with me into the sewer and underground system, but Brennan had quickly vetoed the idea, because it would be a long enough walk as it was and she didn't want to expend my energy unnecessarily. I had the feeling that I would be coddled like a baby until I could deliver a punch with my left hand without being more pained than the recipient.

"Where are you three?" I called to the radio, holding down the button that allowed my speech to pass through. While I had to hike down into the maze with a team of slower-moving forensics, one of whom kept hovering uncomfortably close to make sure I wasn't hurt or overdoing it, Brennan, Booth, and Zach were wearing harnesses and complete systems of bungees, pulleys, and cables to go down through a vertical tunnel closest to where the body had been located. On one hand, it sounded awesome - but I didn't envy them the momentary terror they'd get if the harnesses lurched.

The radio clicked, static coming through for a minute, before it filtered the other end. "Apparently, this was an access shaft to an underwater aqueduct, which has never been activated."

I rolled my eyes. It was hard to keep my temper contained - I noticed that the new pain medications, oxycodone and ultram, had helped keep any pain from my wrist and abdomen at bay but, as a side effect, my body wanted more sleep. As a result, I was crankier and more prone to snapping at people who probably didn't deserve it. Given that they had gone out of there way to allow me into the body site, I should really bite my tongue on this… not literally, but if I wanted to, it's not like I don't have prescription narcotics in my pocket.

Hodgins had been adamant that I always have something to keep myself from crippling agony and Cantilever complied. My normal medicine is oxycodone, a low-risk narcotic, but since, according to Hodgins, I'll lie about my pain levels, if the oxycodone isn't working then I'm also supposed to take ultram, an alternative non-narcotic pain medication. The synthetic properties also made sure that unless I deliberately overdosed, I was highly likely not to become addicted to either of them. I guess they'll all believe I'll lie about hurting after being rather intimately introduced to a knife, but they won't think I'm stupid enough to kill myself with pills.

They're probably right; if I was going to commit suicide, I'd do something fast, not slow. The entire point of suicide is to end suffering, so taking a slow path like hanging or poison seems a bit like it's missing the point. I'm far more likely to either shoot myself in the head or chest, or slash up my wrists vertically.

"I meant geographically," I amended, grimacing as I saw the stairs come into view. The flights were long but came with hand rails; steel, cold rails, often times slick in humidity and condensation, but handrails nonetheless. "Damn it, if one more person offers to help me walk down stairs, I am going to scream." I shifted the radio from my good arm to the one in the sling, holding it in the other without moving my wrist.

"We might hear you," Zach pointed out offhandedly, sounding both factual and concerned at the same time. "The tunnels echo."

"We're somewhere between Wisconsin and Massachusetts Avenue, near the National Cathedral," Booth answered, this time with better information. "You're going down the system closer to the intersection of Massachusetts and Cathedral Avenue. You'll have a bit further to walk than us, but it'll be somewhere in the middle."

"Wow," I commented, grimacing as my hand slid on the metal, taking the steps one at a time and feeling the bandage adhesive pull at my skin. "You are being… surprisingly forthcoming with the information."

"Oh, I imagine it's because he feels responsible for you, or more so than he did before," Brennan pointed out helpfully.

"Bones!" Booth hissed quietly, but I could still hear it. The stairs came to an end halfway down, and the landing turned in ninety degrees before another flight descended.

I huffed. "I'm not complaining about the information, I'm just stating that it's unusual to get so much knowledge with so few questions."

Brennan and Booth both seemed to ignore me - Brennan was irritated at being shushed and so she rather loudly voiced her protests. "I don't know why you're being so difficult, Booth. Holly is intelligent enough to understand that with paternity comes natural responsibility. You must already comprehend that, seeing as you've had one child for four years."

I grit my teeth together until my jaw was hurting and sore. "Can we please talk about something that doesn't make me consider jumping over these rails?" I wasn't honestly considering it, but if bluffing got Brennan to stop talking about this, then…

I know it's an issue and I know I'll have to do something about it eventually - but as far as I'm concerned, the later the better.

Zach came to the rescue, interrupting the miniature argument before it could bloom into a full-blown one. "How far down? We seem very far down."

"Uh… about sixty feet, so far." Booth was tense; I could hear it in his voice.

"And is there any other way?"

"It's a freakin' labyrinth down here, Zach," I answered for him with a glance up to the leader of the forensic unit. "Chuckles over there is carrying a GPS and we've got enough flashlights to light up an entire block in Manhattan. You guys want to get to the body fast, before animals get to it, then the bungee jumping is the best way to go."

"There are many inaccurate statements in your explanation," Zach commented. I could imagine him frowning at the radio in confusion. "Is anyone with you actually called Chuckles?"

I rolled my eyes, but this time it was more out of fond exasperation than agitation. "No, Zach, not really. It's a... you know what, never mind."

"I've done plenty of climbing. These lines have low tolerances that are more than adequate." Brennan assured the intern as soon as I was finished talking, confident and certain.

"What about shock tolerance?" Zach asked anxiously. "The rope jerks, pounds-feet of kinetic energy increases, and snap - we all fall to our deaths."

"Don't forget to scream either 'Sherlock' or 'Reichenbach' if that happens," I advised wryly. "You know, not all of the hospital's cable channels were that bad. They had BBCAmerica."

There was a sudden lurching and creak from over the radio. All three of the adults screamed shortly but it was cut off as they lost the wind in their lungs. There was a long, low groan from the cables and then I could hear only heavy breathing.

I got off of the staircase into another long tunnel, peering ahead. Water dripped into small puddles from the ceiling in a steady rhythm, the sound of the droplets hitting the surfaces echoing. Rings of white light illuminated spots on the ground and walls, and several hit my feet as the other adults with me made sure I was still alright.

"... You lot alright?" I called through the radio uncertainly.

"We're… okay…" Booth sounded shaken and Brennan and Zach were both stunned into silence by the lurch. "I say we just stop the chatter."

"Hey! What were you saying about bungee jumping being the fastest way to get to the body?" I called very pointedly, before looking up to the vertical tunnel extending upwards to the surface directly above the corpse - clothes that were more like rags than Abercrombie and Fitch were laden over red, raw meat and the paler color of bones. The body was mostly obscured by brown, grey and black fur, and I could smell the stench of sewer rats combined with the decomposition.

The rats squeaked happily as they ate.

Booth looked up the tunnel. "Any idea what's at the top of that shaft?"

The cop who had led us here from the point where we'd met up, down a couple of turns, shrugged his shoulders and his eyes traveled up. "Utility tunnel for accessing steam pipes'd be my guess."

I sighed and rolled my shoulders lightly. "Sorry, then, I guess you came down as close as you could." I eyed the scavenging rats uneasily and listened to them squeaking for another couple of seconds before I heard a soft rip of flesh and meat, then decided they needed to go. Like, now.I turned to look at Booth suddenly. "Can I see your gun?"

"Why do you want my gun?" He countered defensively, a hand moving to the handle in the holster. Whether it was to hand it over provided good reason or to keep me from taking it anyway, I wasn't too sure.

I stared at him with my best unimpressed stare. "Well I'm not going to shoot anyone here and I'm not feeling particularly suicidal this week, I promise," I said sarcastically - not because I didn't mean it, but because I felt it should go without explanation that I wasn't planning on killing anyone. "Look, I get it, okay? I just got out of the hospital, I'm compulsively violent, and I'm screwed up in the head - but you've known me a while, and I've yet to do anything without reason, so regardless of what's happened in the past couple of weeks, a bit of trust would be appreciated."

Booth sighed and then took the firearm out of the holster, twisting it around so his hand was around the barrel before handing it to me. "It's not a hammer or anything," he reminded me unhappily.

Although I couldn't use both hands for it, I was fairly certain that I could handle the rehash, so without warning, I unlocked the safety, lowered the gun to the corpse, and shot just over it at the ridiculously large rodents.

Booth jumped and I grimaced as a blasts hit my ears, but I continued firing off the round. The little explosion at the end of the barrel flashed, temporarily blinding until I stopped and the light faded. My eyes adjusted to the comparative dark swiftly and I could hear some rats screech, beginning to dig their claws into whatever was under or near them and run (or crawl, in some cases) away from the source of the frightening noise. Several of them must have been shot.

"Good thinking," Brennan praised, moving forward to the corpse. She stepped harder than necessary and shooed at the remaining rats with her hands, trying to make them move faster. "Now the healthy rats will eat the injured and leave our remains alone."

"Oh." I paused. I hadn't actually thought of that part - mostly I'd just wanted the rats gone and wanted to shoot something to vent the anger and frustration, and it had helped. I was feeling more relaxed than I had been before. "Yeah, well, there is that, too." I shrugged and relocked the safety, holding the gun back out to its owner.

"You know - you doknow I have to file a report with the review board every time I discharge a round from my weapon?" Booth demanded, shoving the gun back into the holster.

"It's for a good cause; preserving the integrity of human remains in the course of a federal investigation," I replied testily, set a bit on edge by the biting urge to shout, at least you can still file reports! You don't have to keep an arm in a fucking sling!

But that wouldn't be fair. All circumstances considered, he could be acting a lot worse to me and I'd still say that it wasn't nearly as bad as it could be. I'm used to such bad treatment that even mediocre treatment would seem good, as far as I'm concerned, and he's going out of his way to include me in activities that I used to participate in, even in full health. Besides, it's not his fault my wrist is sprained. It's not my fault, either - although it was my fighting that resulted in the majority of my injuries, it was Kenton's decisions and actions that had led to putting me in the position where it was necessary. I had kept myself alive long enough to get help, but Kenton had no motive other than staying on the good side of the Romano family.

"Pictures, Zach," Brennan called over her shoulder, kneeling down on the ground by the bones. Most of the flesh had been stripped off by the rodentia. I heard the snapping of rubber gloves from in front of her and, after a brief internal debate, stayed put beside Booth. No ill will to him or anything, but I'd rather not be too close to him. However, seeing as the alternative is being in an uncomfortable position on the filthy ground where I can't do much of anything because I have no means of bracing myself to stay upright and touching at the same time, I'll deal with it.

"The rats scattered the remains, and assuming she fell from the top of the shaft, parts of her body and some of her bones may have shattered the moment she hit the ground. Say, a five-meter radius for polaroids?" I suggested, scowling. I wanted to be helpful, but other than giving verbal input, there wasn't much I could actually do. I can't wait until this stupid wrist injury heals. Little strain on my stomach for the next several weeks? Fine, yeah, I can do that. Do absolutely nothing with my wrist and, therefore, pretty much my whole left arm? I'm going to go insane.

"You're correct, the velocity of the fall shattered her body on impact." Brennan gingerly lifted up one of the badly torn-apart legs. The bones were visible, stained with blood, and kept together by the remains of the stronger sinew and tendons. "Tibia and fibula's broken below the knees, the vertebrae compressed and shattered."

"Her?" Booth interrupted.

"Yeah." Brennan delicately set the aforementioned bones back onto the ground, with no where else to set them. "I just hope she was dead before the rats got to her."

"Oh, God." Booth swallowed and turned his head to look at the wall of the tunnel, raising up one hand to the side of his face, blocking off his vision of the body. "Any idea how long she's been down here?"

"Indeterminable," I answered, staring at the broken corpse with an unexpected wash of revulsion. It wasn't that it was surprising; I've seen a multitude since I was brought into this. "Rats can strip a body of flesh in a matter of days. Until Hodgins determines the entomology, we have no way of knowing when the body was dumped, or even if she was somewhere else and we're attributing more decomp to the rats then they're actually responsible for, plus a number of other factors, such as weather, humidity, and other scavengers."

"Shirt, pants, but no jacket or shoes. No way rats can carry that off." Booth happened to glance to me at his side and must have seen me frowning unhappily. "Holly, you alright?"

It really didn't escape my notice that he used to just call me 'kid' more often than my name. I guess it's just too accurate now.

"Yeah." I answered, nodding slowly and swallowing as Zach raised the bulky camera to start taking pictures. "Just…" I took a deep breath and sighed, momentarily relishing in the relatively new ability to do so without discomfort. "I just didn't realize how close Kenton got to getting me like that." I gestured to the body lamely and looked away, shutting my eyes in grief for the victim and for myself. Though nothing had happened to me to warrant comparing myself to a decomposing corpse, this was driving home that I very nearly had been murdered, and if Hodgins and Booth hadn't caught on, then it could have been days or weeks until I was found. I could have been in the same state as this victim, sans the different position and wounds.

I didn't realize it before now, but I could really appreciate the last moments of the victims' lives at this point: If they saw it coming, they probably felt the way that I had in the warehouse.

"Hey." His voice was hushed and I could feel the air moving by my shoulder, like he had started to put his hand on my shoulder but then remembered I wouldn't like it. "Is this a bad time? Because I can take you back up to the street. You don't have to start right away."

I shook my head determinedly, squeezing my eyes shut before blinking them open again. "No, I'm fine. Just a… It was just a momentary lapse in thought is all."

Zach lowered the camera and sucked in his lower lip, looking between Brennan and I like he was unsure whether to go on or try to be in some sort of awkward conversation about comfort and loneliness and all that. Brennan looked up from the remains but I shook my head before she could say anything.

"Look, we've all acknowledged that I was nearly murdered," I stated, trying to keep my tone as factual as I could. "I've accepted it. It's a thing of the past. Kenton's up for life in jail. I don't exactly know where I'll be living," I sent Booth a pointed glare but only for a moment. I didn't want this to turn into an argument. "But my internship is paid, so I can get a better place once I turn eighteen. As far as I'm concerned, life is alright for me, but out there someone's walking free from murder and someone else is missing a friend, so can we please just leave me to be angsty on my own time and focus on the homicide that we are literally right next to?"

"Epiphyseal fusion puts her in her late twenties to early thirties." Brennan continued where she had left off in her analysis. It wasn't her being cold; I think she was just trying to respect my desire not to talk about it. I said I'm good, so she's taking it at face value. Zach resumed taking his pictures. "It looks like there's plenty of insect activity for Hodgins."

"That'll make him happy," I commented, doing my utmost best to ignore that it took Booth several seconds longer of psychoanalyzing my profile before deciding that I really wasn't about to break down in sobs and tears. "Are the dentals intact?"

Brennan rose to her feet but left her gloves on. Instead of answering, she yelled out, "Excuse me! Sir?" I looked up after her but no one in the crime scene team was doing anything they weren't supposed to be; far back, at the end of the tunnel, a smaller form was casting a dark shadow that spanned up the majority of the far wall. "Sir!" Brennan took off at a run, jogging deftly around the equipment by the body.

"Oh, come on," I sighed. The masculine figure at the end of the tunnel straightened up as Brennan started, but then he turned, sprinted back to the T-shaped intersection, and turned left. His footsteps died off as he slunk back, but Booth picked up into a run after the anthropologist. After weighing the pros and cons, I groaned and decided to give it a shot.

My running was clumsy at best; still not entirely used to being on my feet again, and with a sling at that, my steps were far less coordinated than they used to be. That I could run at all was a testament to my healing, but that didn't mean I was completely happy with just that.

"Easy! Bones, what the hell are you doing?!" Booth shouted.

Brennan skidded to a stop when she got to the cross in the tunnels and she leaned out to look in the direction of the man who had run away. Booth caught up to her with a couple more footsteps; his strides were longer than hers, so even though she'd had a head start, he caught up easily.

Almost a full ten to fifteen seconds later, I reached Brennan's other side, with a stitch beginning to prick just below my ribs from the comparatively vigorous exercise, since I hadn't done anything more than walking in around two weeks. I very nearly doubled over, keeping my sprained wrist pressed tight against my stomach while I bent over, pressing my other hand over the skin where my side was protesting.

"Damn it," I breathed under my breath. I couldn't help the feeling of absolute helplessness. Great. I can't fight and I can't flee. I'm pretty much a sitting duck if I leave these peoples' sides. No, worse than that - I'm a duck that's sitting on the freaking water so I can be drowned or shot, whichever works best. At least ducks can squee and flap their wings to intimidate people.

"You don't just go running after guys into the dark!" Booth raised his voice at Brennan in exasperation and it consequently brought me out of my ridiculous comparisons of myself to a duck. Well, that metaphor got away from me.

"He didn't need any light," Brennan pointed out, squinting her eyes to try to see down the cavernous tunnel. "He knew exactly where he was going."

"Yeah, he's a discount Norman Bates," I sniped sarcastically, trying to straighten back up before someone started trying to call an ambulance.

"I don't know who that is." Brennan looked away from the tunnel and back to me, her face a mask of honest confusion.

I stared at her incredulously. I can get not knowing Colin Farrell or whatever, but how has she lived in the twenty-first century and not know who Norman Bates is? "Psycho?" I asked.

"What? Who is?" She just looked more confused, and she looked around to see if I was talking about anyone with us, so I elaborated.

"You know, sixties horror movie? Alfred Hitchcock? Black-and-white film, one of the most iconic American horror movies ever? With the woman butchered in the shower and the man stabbed and shoved down the stairs?" Brennan shook her head, signifying that she'd never heard of it; I shrugged. "Oh… never mind, then. It's not important."

"I just meant… he moved without any light. He knows his way." Brennan gestured back towards the dark tunnel adjacent to the one with the body. "He lives down here."

I was happier in the Jeffersonian than I thought that I would be. I knew I'd feel safer and all around more at home in the lab, but I hadn't anticipated how relaxed and comfortable I would feel. It was like how someone must feel coming home after a vacation - the loft is like a bedroom, because I've taken naps up there when I got too tired, and the platforms and laboratories are like living rooms, because I spent time there and I'm entertained.

Of course, that would make the security guards that greeted me kindly either the German shepherd guard dogs or the Welsh Corgi house pets, so maybe I shouldn't tell them that.

"Her name is Marni Hunter, twenty-four." Brennan was leaning over the monitor by the examination table with Marni's skeleton while I stood on the other side of the table by the bones. They were still crawling with little bugs and larvae, so I kept at least a foot away without any gloves to protect my hand, and it would be hard to put on gloves with only one rotatable wrist. "One point seven meters tall, left-handed, documentary filmmaker."

"The fiancee reported her missing ten days ago." Booth added helpfully, leaning against the side of the platform with one arm resting on top of the highest rail.

"Did the police find Norman in the tunnels?" I asked almost hopefully. I knew Norman was most likely not the name of the man Brennan chased, but it worked pretty well for me.

"Norman?" Booth gave me a strange look of momentary confusion before he recalled the joke I'd made in the tunnels and the expression cleared. "Oh, the mole man. No."

"I've heard of those people. They patch into electrical grids down there. Some can even tap cable." Hodgins carefully closed a translucent jar, screwing the top lid on slowly to avoid crushing any insects attempting to fly. "I'd set time of death at about ten days, when the Missing Person's report was filed."

"You sure?" Booth asked, looking over at the entomologist.

Hodgins responded by shuffling closer to Booth and holding up the jar of beetles happily, holding it out towards Booth. The FBI agent lifted up the file in his hands as a barrier between the entomologist's jar and himself. "See the ratio of fly larvae to Silphidae beetles?" Hodgins asked excitedly.

Booth didn't even look at the jar. "Yeah, ten days. I believe you."

With a pout, Hodgins realized Booth wasn't actually going to look, so he pulled the jar back closer to his chest and carried it to an evidence tray.

Brennan glanced up from the bones to Booth and her eyes lingered on the file in his hand before he lowered it. "She fell approximately forty feet and landed feet first, which explained the crushed tibias."

"Right. And that's…" Booth trailed off and looked at me for a simpler version.

Since I couldn't do much else aside from offer verbal consultation, I didn't feel very useful, so I was happy to answer for him. It was kind of like going back to the first part of working here; before the Jeffersonian staff knew me enough to trust me with evidence, I served as a walking, talking translator app between Booth and the squints more often than I did as a scientist.

"Fell forty feet and landed standing up. Momentum rushed up her legs and her body couldn't handle it so her tibias were practically pulverized as a result. Basically - major ouch. If she was still alive," I went on helpfully, because I knew he would ask. "She could have died from either shock or pain's effects on her heart."

"That what killed her?" The agent asked hopefully.

He should really know better than to assume that cause of death would be identified within fifteen minutes of starting in on the body. "Not necessary," Brennan denied predictably. "Her skull sustained traumatic injuries that are inconsistent with a feet-first fall."

"We found blood traces and bone chips on pieces of exposed pipe and rebar jutting from the side of the ventilation shaft," Zach offered, looking between Brennan and Booth.

I sighed a second before I gave another reply. "Whether prone due to unconsciousness or death, her body took a serious beating."

"So…" Booth nodded. "That's what killed her."

"No," Brennan corrected again. I stepped backwards as Zach stepped forwards to closely analyze the phalanges, keeping enough space between us so I still had my bubble. "Not necessarily."

Zach held up the hand and squinted at the fingernails. "The fingernails are totally clean. There's nothing under them."

I looked back to Booth and held up my right arm in demonstration. After hesitating for a split second, I extended my arm out and straightened my fingers so he could see under the nails. "I bite my nails when I'm nervous, but the chipping is from trying to fight back against Kenton. I was grabbing at whatever was nearest the moment he didn't have a gun at me. It's an instinctual action, stemming from the need to escape danger. In this case, Marni would have the same types of chips in her fingernails if she was falling."

I thought that I was doing pretty well - being forthcoming and talking in fair detail about my near-death experience - except when Booth stepped forward to see my fingernails better, I flinched back without meaning to. Booth stopped immediately and looked away and, scowling and internally cursing my lack of control, I pulled my arm back to my side.

The resulting tension felt stifling and suddenly I couldn't breathe. The air was too hot and I was too aware of my hair sticking to the back of my neck, and of the heat trapped between the fabric of my sweater and my skin, and of the unusual looseness of the sleeves of my pants - pajama pants, on a lab platform, and far from the jeans I'm normally clad in. I'm essentially wearing pajamas - sweat pants and a camisole with a long-sleeved hoodie. No wonder I feel like I can't breathe, it's wrong. It's not the natural order. The last time things weren't in their places, I was kidnapped - I could have been shot, mutilated, eaten by dogs. I was stabbed, assaulted, betrayed.

I can't be somewhere where nothing is right anymore! I'll go insane before I can rationalize everything out!

The hyper-awareness reminded me of an old gym game called Nervous Breakdown. It was supposed to just be a fun game, but it was an elementary thing. I really started growing up when I was eleven or twelve, so in elementary the kids were bigger than me, and meaner, too. Nervous Breakdown was basically just a bunch of kids throwing a basketball at each other's stomachs, but everyone was supposed to keep their hands behind their backs unless the player in the center of the person-made circle threw the ball at them.

So through the game, the entire challenge is that you have to do exactly what your brain is telling you not to do when someone feigns a move - not defend yourself.For a beaten child, the urge was ten times stronger, and the problem was, most kids would either throw way too hard, or aim for my face instead of my stomach. Whenever I was in that gym and facing the threat of a sudden attack from people I wasn't strong enough to fight, the lights were too bright, the air was too warm, the humidity was too high, and my clothes were either too tight or too loose, sometimes both at the same time.

I sucked in air faster and faster and it was probably a late notice of my lightheadedness. I squeezed my eyes shut and bowed my head, mentally counting to ten. One, two, three… It wasn't helping; it didn't take enough concentration, so I could still think back to the assault and I could still focus too much on the palpable tension.

Yi, er, san… Un, deux, trois… Eins, zwei, drei… Uno, due, tre...Ichi, ni, san…

"Holly?"

I heard my name being called and I got the feeling that hey, maybe you should replybut when I opened my mouth, I couldn't. No sound came out, like my vocal cords had signed off for the day and were coming back later. Or not. Haven't decided yet. My chest hurt - not like an external blow, but an ache from my lungs.

But why? I'm breathing, aren't I?

Yes, but, not very well.

It was weird - I could comprehend everything I felt but the way I felt it was strange and impersonal. One side of my brain could do nothing except dumbly try to take in oxygen while the other half was leaning back in the passenger's seat, observing and noticing and understanding but not driving.

I was dizzy. I was hot and cold and goosebumps were jumping up my arms. A cold sweat was sticking my hair to my forehead, and my chest burned with the need for oxygen, and I was dizzy for the same reason. I was borderline hyperventilating and the most odd part of it all was that I wasn't entirely sure why it was all happening.

"Holly!" Footsteps. Snapping of rubber gloves being pulled off of hands. I ducked my head and bent, ignoring the throbbing pain in my wrist as I tried to double over protectively. Kept my eyes shut so I couldn't see, so I didn't overload any more than I already was.

"Oh my God - should I get an ambulance?!"

"I think she's just having a panic attack."

"Oh, well as long as it's just a panic attack-"

"Booth, stop! You can't move her right now, it might make it worse!"

"She needs to stop hyperventilating and she needs to sit down before she falls!"

"Booth, think about it.She's overwhelmed with anxiety. She was beaten for years. She doesn't like being touched even when she's calm, how do you think she'll react to it when she's like this?"

"Guys, she can't breathe! Someone has to do something!"

Hyperventilating. Panic attack?

I've never had a panic attack before. Sure, I show the signs of anxiety and depression - insomnia, nightmares, the works, but my anxiety has never reached the point where I couldn't tamp it down and put a lid on it.

"Holly. Holly, what's wrong? Do you need something?" I think that was Booth, the voice at my side - the lightest brush of fingers on my shoulder, like he knew Brennan said I shouldn't be pushed anywhere, but that he wanted to carry or otherwise move me out of the scene. It would make sense, he was a soldier, and generally you get wounded or compromised people out of the commotion and somewhere quiet and safe.

Oxygen would be great. So would a wet wash cloth. And unconsciousness.

"Yeah, she can't breathe, but she can definitely talk!"

"Hodgins!" There was a pause, and a murmured apology. "Don't tell her there's nothing to be afraid of. That might only exacerbate it."

The part of my mind on the backburner realized that this lot obviously wasn't going to be much of a help. On one hand, I can't blame them - they don't know what set it off - hell, I don't know what set it off - so they don't know what would make it worse, and obviously they don't want to do that. But on the other hand, I'm freaking out here, unable to breathe, and you'd think the least they could do was try to coach my breathing so I don't pass out.

In, out. Don't hyperventilate.

My breaths came quick and shallow - when I listened, tuning out the voices of the adults, I sounded like a panting dog, not a human who had only been standing around. I stopped, closed my mouth, and made a conscious attempt at breathing in through my nose deeply, until my lungs were full, and then parted my lips to let the breath escape.

I repeated this several times on my own and as I did so, my lungs recovered and the dizziness and nausea faded. My mind began to clear. I remembered reading somewhere that typical panic attacks that come from anxiety disorders last from ten to fifteen minutes, while spontaneous ones from PTSD or trauma could be as short as three to five. How long had I been freaking out over here? Not that long, because at the very least security would have been called. Figure maybe around a minute to work myself up into that frenzy, a couple of minutes since they noticed?

The clothes were still uncomfortable, my hair on my skin even more so - I should tie that up. But I didn't feel like I was suffocating on the air anymore, and that had to be a plus.

Concentrate on something calming or deliberate. Change what I'm thinking about - something freaked me out so I need to let myself calm completely before I risk going back to it and starting the cycle over again, right? I've never had an anxiety attack or stress-induced freak-out, but it seemed to make the most sense and it was so much easier to think when the talking had all stopped except for the near constant syllables of my name being repeated by Booth and the controlled counting Zach was doing from somewhere nearby - seeing as it synced up with my now somewhat stable breathing, he was probably trying to help keep it that way.

I'm hot blooded, check it and see. I've got a fever of a hundred and three. Come on, baby, do you do more than dance… I'm hot blooded, hot blooded.

I repeated the verse in my head a couple of times and when I stopped imagining the voice of Foreigner's lead singer in my head, recalling it from memory and playing it on loop, I couldn't hear my gasping breath anymore and I felt stable.

I dared to open my eyes. The light seemed bright, but it wasn't blinding or painful like I had momentarily thought prior to the fit.

"... Holly?" Booth asked in concern. His face was far closer to mine than I'd anticipated and I turned my head so my hair hung down like a curtain, giving me the illusion of space. The hand near my shoulder came down with more pressure, but gently and slowly so, like he thought I was a rabbit that would scamper away.

"You can stop now, Zach," I murmured to the graduate, who stopped counting although he looked down at me uncertainly - his eyes felt like lasers burning into me in his scrutiny and despite my better judgment, I felt the prick of tears building up behind my eyes.

"Are you okay now?" Booth asked, the same question as before but with words instead of just my name. "Do you need to go someplace else?"

I'm still on my feet. While it was a miracle I hadn't toppled over, I wasn't about to question it, not when it meant that I could just walk away from it - from the stares and concerned looks, from Brennan, Booth, Hodgins, Zach, and even the fucking security guards by the doors, one of whom had a radio in his hand like he'd been about to call for help.

"I just…" I glanced overhead; a mistake, because the lights were even brighter when I looked right at them, so I probably should have known better than to do that in the first place. I took a deep breath, very deliberate, and then exhaled slowly to prove that I could still breathe, that I was in control of my body again - more to myself than to them. "I need to go outside," I said, the excuse heavy on my tongue. "Get some air."

"Do you want me to go with you, kid?" Booth's question was soft, sincere in the offer - but I couldn't overlook the almost natural addition of the word kid which he'd been carefully avoiding. Oh, great. If he wants to waste his energy concerning himself over me - fine. I just don't want him getting all paternal on me when all I want from him is strictly a friendly collegial relationship. I don't need a father, and I don't know how to handle an adult trying to act like one. Maybe it's fear - I'm mature enough to admit that I'm skittish of commitment - or maybe it's just overdeveloped independency, but unless I can get over everything at my pace, I will not be able to tolerate any changes in the relationships I already valued.

"No." I pulled away, shrugging my shoulder up so he had to either let go or hold on - and I knew he wouldn't force me to deal with being touched, not when there was another option, not when he knew what it was like to be hit by people you couldn't run from - and his hand slipped off of my jacket. "I'm just going outside to, ah, the garden. Yeah. Just - just get me before you leave to talk to the fiancee."

I lowered my eyes to the tiles as I crossed the platform, thanking a God I don't think exists for that my steps were balanced albeit slow. I knew the excuse was poorly made even as I made it, but surely they wouldn't force me to have company after an episode like that.

And sure enough, no one tried to stop me as I left the Medico-Legal lab. Or as I walked out the doors. Or as I held onto the rail and took the stairs down to the huge garden rather than the handicap access ramp, which would have been easier to use.

I found a bench near enough to the doors, but I didn't feel like sitting on cold metal when I was already feeling temperature-confused enough as it was. Instead I let myself fall forward onto my knees in the grass and then rocked back, bracing myself with my good arm and kicking my long legs out in front of me. The grass blades poked at my exposed ankles but it was a good sort of scratching. I fell back so I was leaning against the front of the bench as comfortably as I could and I just watched the fountain spurt water up into the sky before it fell down into the circular pool underneath.

Then I blinked and let the tears fall.

It was better than letting it build up until I really did break. In a way, that's how I feel - broken. Fractured. Shattered. Because something's wrong now - many things are wrong, and there are few that I can truly blame on anyone other than myself.

But something's really wrong with me - I'm not a delinquent or a screw up; I've got mental issues now, too. I mean, yeah, I was stabbed and kidnapped and all that; but now I'm having anxiety blindsiding me from out of nowhere. Isn't it bad enough that I can't seem to get enough sleep?

I tipped my head to the side and felt in the grass for a single emerald blade. I pinched one in between two fingers and followed the vein down to the root in the grass, feeling the dirt gather under my nails and my fingertips brushing the soil, and then I pulled, breaking the long stem off.

Despite that there were now sticky tear tracks on my cheeks, and a droplet was rolling down my chin to drop onto the front of my sweater, I could see clearly. I held up the blade of grass to my scrutiny and noticed how sharp it looked. Sharp and fragile at the same time - I could see all of the little strands that it could be peeled into, feel the slight ridges under my fingertips, and when I looked back to the ground next to me, I couldn't even remember where I'd pulled it from. Sharp, fragile, and insignificant.

Like me. Thorny on the outside, sensitive on the inside, and in the long run, insignificant.

Because six months from now, no one at the bar's going to know or care what my name is, or who I am, or who I was at the time. In a year, no one at the hospital's going to remember me, no matter how sharp my tongue was. Two years from now, Kenton won't remember the conversation about human parthenogenesis when I started trusting him - he'll only remember when he betrayed that trust. Three years from now, Zach will have his doctoral degree and may not even work at the Jeffersonian any more; I'll be like a passing memory, because an eight-month-long intern, even with a couple extra months, isn't going to be worth speculation when he gets his degree and title and career set out. Five years from now, Cullen probably won't remember the reckless teenager that got involved with the FBI and picked fights with mercenaries, no matter what record she created for herself in the Jeffersonian. Ten years from now, Parker isn't going to lay back in bed and think, Hm, I remember when she read me a children's book and let me crawl up in her hospital bed.

I let myself cry, because I knew I needed to otherwise this would all spill over the dam sometime when I didn't have the time or the privacy. And they probably think I didn't notice that one of the lab's security guards was standing by the steps and watching the whole time.