The Killer in the Psychologist
Bones, the TV show, belongs to others. Bones, the 206 calcium-rich items used for structural integrity within my own frame, are mine.
So's this story.
AN: Maybe Booth is right, maybe a psychologist shouldn't carry a gun. Could you imagine a counseling session with a gun-toting shrink?
But maybe Brennan is right, too. Maybe he could draw off gunfire from Booth and prevent her from rearing their child alone.
Or maybe no one is really right.
He knew the symptoms well: a sense of dissociation, racing heartbeat, difficulty concentrating. When his hand went to his pocket to fish out his cell phone and call for the ambulance, the tremors were severe enough that he dropped the phone. Bending to pick it up, he could feel the backwash of bile in his throat as he saw the puddle of blood seem to grow around the three men. He reached out a tremulous hand to touch the one man, to gauge his breathing, his pulse.
The man lifted his head from the cradle of his arms and eyed him. "Call. . . ."
The man collapsed again—not like he had before, crumpling to the ground, first to one knee then convulsing as another bullet caught him in the shoulder, the images making a slow playback. Merely folded in on himself as if to cradle the pain coursing through his chest.
"Call," came the voice rough with pain muffled somewhat by the proximity of the ground, "make the damned call."
He bent to the order, his thumb turning on the phone automatically. Scanning the options with a glance, he made his selection, the one he had made sure was at the top of his speed dial numbers ever since he had been given a chance out in the field. He'd never really needed to use it before, certainly not for something like this before.
"We need a Medivac unit at. . . ," he heard his voice strangely higher than normal, sounding almost strangled as if the words were caught and stretched to the straining point. He recited the address he'd read from the computer minutes earlier. "We have three men down. There's a lot a blood. So much blood." His throat dry, he swallowed and tried to sound more normal. But he could only squeak out, "I think one of them is dead. The others are in bad shape. Real bad shape."
The dispatcher's voice seemed both far away and entirely too close at the same time, even and robotic. "I'm sending the unit immediately. Can you tell me the nature of the injuries?"
He understood deep down that he knew the nature, the images assaulting his memory in slow motion detail. First, the flash of movement, then another and then the assault on his ears as the gun fired. Then the gun trained on him as fear held him in its grip. A grunt, another sharp report and another and another. . . .
"Shots," he sputtered. "Gunshots. . . he was hit twice. . . no, three times." The voice from the phone repeated a question, once, twice. . . .
"The officer's name?" He was staring at the man and for a millisecond, he couldn't even remember the man's name. Then suddenly he had it.
"Lance Sweets," he offered. It seemed right and wrong at the same time. "No. No. That's, that's me. No, that's my name." He took a deep breath and tried again. "It's Booth. FBI Agent Seeley Booth."
"He might be dead."