Author's note: Thank you all for the feedback on chapter one. It seems chapter two, Brennan's POV has been trying to get out of me all here it is. I hope you enjoy!

As the officer puts his hand on the crown of her head, pushing her firmly down into the rear of the cruiser, she looks upwards.

She sees him standing by the window of her apartment, watching as she is locked into the vehicle. He is obviously in the middle of a call as he has his cell phone pressed to his ear. But he continues staring right down at her, right into her eyes and he appears oblivious to the multiple people moving behind him. He is also seemingly ignoring whoever he has on the call.

She also notes that he still looks really angry. With her.

She wonders why; the Orleans P.D. are only doing their jobs and she is only doing what she ought by co-operating fully.

Narrowing her eyes, she squints to see him better through the glow of a street light. He looks concerned as she returns his stare, then suddenly seems to remember he has a phone to his ear. He doesn't even break eye contact when he snaps back to the conversation and continues what appears to be a heated discussion.

The officer who put her in the car opens the passenger door and sinks into his seat; The officer in the driver's seat starts the engine.

It occurs to her that she should raise her cuffed hand and wave. It seems like the right thing to do.

But as she determines that she will do just that, his shoulders drop and he blinks slowly before turning away from the window, probably called by someone in the room. He walks away from the window and out of her sight.

She isn't sure why, but losing eye contact with him is disquieting.

"Odd." She whispers.

"What?" The driver barks.

"Nothing." She lifts her chin and straightens her shoulders. The driver engages the gear and pulls away.

Only minutes later, the cruiser pulls into the precinct parking lot halting under a harsh white security bulb, lighting a double door that she determines must be the prisoner entrance. She shuffles in her seat getting ready to exit the car when instructed not wanting to give them any grounds to think her unreasonable.

She scrapes a knee against the cage in which she sits. Her body aches, especially her wrist where the cuffs dig into her skin, exacerbating the injury she She can't remember. How frustrating.

She catches the eye of the driving officer one last time before he also exits the vehicle. On the journey from her hotel, he repeatedly and systematically glanced at her in the rear view mirror. He wasn't hiding his interest and she postulated he was merely fulfilling a requirement to observe her.

However it was the sideways glances he kept giving his colleague that seemed incongruous. Surely they knew she isn't a risk to them having handed herself over willingly and she has co-operated fully.

But she also understands that she may be guilty.

Maybe she should keep quiet for now. Booth was as pissed off as she has ever seen himpulling his gun on another law enforcement officer. She doesn't know what to make of that. It was unsettling...unnecessary...courageous...


The passenger officer gets out and opens her door.

She's there on suspicion of murder and knows she'll be going through the whole process. It could take some time.


Closing the cell door, the warden walks away, ignoring her request for a glass of water.

She sits on the bed and rubs her thumb round and over her wrist, imagining the crack across the bone and the imprint it will leave. It really does ache now, even more so since the removal of the cuffs.

That pain, the hardness of the wooden bed on which she will have to sleep, the harsh white security light that streams through the high window into her cell, the noise coming from the adjacent cells – someone retching, someone else snoring. It could all be quite overwhelming.

It is overwhelming.

She lays on her back on the hard cot, and against her better judgement feels alone.

This place feels like that other place, the dark, hot room where she was held.

"Focus, Brennan. Positives."

At least this one has a window.

Yes, a window.

But suddenly that's not enough.

Feeling the familiar panic building, her heart beats irregularly and her breathing becomes shallow. She starts to sweat and yet her skin goes cold. All the signs of panic. Familiar. Terrifying.

She forces herself into the routine.

She takes deep steadying breathes. One...two...three...


It's not working...


A tear escapes her eye and runs down into her hair.


"Come on Brennan." She talks to herself. "Come on, think, think. Focus."

She scrunches her eyes shut and tries to image herself somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

Where was the last place she felt safe? The Jeffersonian. Yes. Her office. It is spacious, air conditioned, light. She imagines herself sat the desk, her ornaments around her, X-Rays on the light box, computer screen on, journals on the desk, coffee in a mug.

Imagining the details, always works. Her breathing is getting deeper.

She stays in the office in her mind. She looks around at the window, at the couch. At the pattern on the blanket she bought in Peru that lies over one arm of the furniture. At Booth sitting on the other arm.


Since when did Booth fit into her calming routine?

She looks into the picture again.

Yes, he is definitely there, one arm slung along the back of the sofa, legs crossed so that his trouser leg rides up revealing a garish sock. And he is grinning at her.

No person has ever been in her scenario before.

This time, she says it softly.


But despite his unplanned presence, she is inexplicably comforted.

She doesn't like the unexplained.

She wonders what it means until dawn light filters through the cell window, and the security light clicks off.

Pleeeease review - I am not above begging as you can see...