Timeframe/Info About This Fic: I suppose anytime in Season 8
Disclaimer: Bones and its characters belong to their rightful owners.
Authors Note: Oh my gosh, I can not stop fandom jumping! I watched one episode of Bones, fall in love with Sweets, and now I've watched over 60 episodes in less than a week. Oh, and now I'm mangling my favorite character. How is this sane?! I know this show will end me.
So, uh, first Bones fic if you didn't figure it out xD

Sweets saw him first. Their suspect appeared at the glass door, brandishing his gun without a sound. The psychologist's own body stiffened from a natural response to tension as his pale, steady hand gradually slid over to his concealed weapon. After the surprising lack of a snarky comment from his younger friend, Agent Booth, who was rummaging through a discrete file, looked up and glowered at their unwelcomed visitor.

"Mathias," he snarled.

Instead of speaking, Sweets focused his energies on studying the murderer and escaped convict. From the case photos, Ronald Mathias had always seemed so steady and composed; however, in the flesh he was much less impressive. The middle-aged man's steely gray eyes darted fretfully from the young psychologist to the special agent. Sweets could only imagine what was sparking through the criminal's head at the moment, though if he had to hazard a guess, he wouldn't have been very wrong in hypothesizing that Mathias had bad intentions when he followed the two FBI agents back to Booth's office after "official" closing time. While Mathias and Booth exchanged death glares, Sweets achieved his own "ah-hah" moment in his on-the-spot psych analysis.

Based on his expression when he saw Booth was not alone, he did not expect me to be present. Sweets noticed the subtle flickers that Mathias would dart in his direction. Though he doesn't see me as a threat—more of a complication. Two against one. Regardless, Mathias's situation has changed for him and his confidence is undermined. He's now trying to justify to himself whether or not going after Booth is the best choice or if he should wait for another opportunity.

Despite the noticeable (at least to the young psychologist) change in Mathias's demeanor, Sweets was still wise to remember that Mathias was a danger and his mistake would only make him irrational and more lethal. Glancing sideways at his partner, Sweets could see that Booth was thinking about the same thing.

"What do you want, Mathias?" Booth growled again. His hand itched to grab his gun, but at the moment Mathias's own barrel was currently pointed as his chest. "Why did you come here?"

With his nervous, flickering eyes, the escaped criminal saw Booth's subtle attempts to retrieve his handheld. Licking the corner of his dry mouth, Mathias raised his weapon higher and unlocked the safety with a loud click. "Not a move, Seeley," he drawled in a slow voice that was steadily gaining confidence, "or I'll shoot the kid." He lazily swung the loaded and cocked weapon in Sweets' direction. "Now, put your hands up and don't try anything funny."

Still keeping his death glare on the murder, Booth slowly raised his hands in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Booth could see that Sweets hadn't followed the directions and it was unlikely Mathias would make him. For once, the psychologist's youthful appearance worked in his favor, since the interloper seemed to care little about the younger man other than the fact that he was a "hostage."

Instead of watching Mathias, Sweets turned most of his focus on Booth. From their time in the field together, they had developed a natural sort of system that helped them get through sticky situations like this. Sweets only had to wait for the signal set from the special agent.

Booth's left pinky twitched twice in the air, unnoticed by Mathias. Sweets swallowed once to clear the lump in his throat. He took a deep breath to smooth down the jitters in his stomach—which Mathias confused with a gulp of terror. His hand by his gun twitched three times from nerves and pent-up adrenaline, and Sweets was almost afraid that he had blown their cover. However, Mathias could care less about the psychologist and channeled most of his attention on the glowering special agent in front of him.

"You didn't answer my question, Mathias. What do you want?"

Mathias rolled his gray eyes, his attention diverted enough for Sweets to tuck his right hand quickly into his suit jacket and on the smooth grip on his gun. The cold metal was a shock to his sweaty palm, and his grip tightened instinctively around the weapon. He still wasn't completely confident in his shooting abilities, and now that Daisy was gone, he wondered who he was going to "protect" this time.

"Isn't it obvious, Booth?" Booth's second sign—a rapid three blinks in his left eye—went through. With a faint bob of his chin, Sweets responded with a subtle "I'm ready" look in Booth's direction. "I want revenge for you locking me away for all this time."

Booth gritted his teeth. "You killed five people, including a federal agent. You're lucky I didn't shoot you on the spot."

Mathias shrugged good-naturedly, pulling the gun back in Booth's direction so that the barrel pointed right at the agent's nose. He opened his mouth to most likely finish his gloats when Booth completed the third and final signal. Booth licked his lips while curling his right hand into a tight fist. Taking that to mean "fire at will," Sweets quickly drew out his weapon and fired.

The psychologist was correct in his report that Mathias was dangerous. With a shocking speed for someone caught off guard, he did a remarkable job in reacting. Seeing the reflection of the gun against the glass windows out of the corner of his eye, Mathias turned sharply to try to dodge the bullet. He was able to throw his body further to the right, but Sweets' bullet still managed to nail him hard in the right shoulder. Mathias's body jerked back from the impact and his gut reaction for survival caused him to yank the trigger backwards. The room filled with an enormous boom.

The next few moments seemed to flow in slow motion for Sweets. Even though his partially severed shoulder guaranteed that Mathias would be inaccurate in his shot, it was well-aimed before and the bullet clearly wanted to follow the wanted trajectory as if it were actively seeking Booth. The special agent was too distracted with trying to bring his hands down to get his own gun to really pay much attention to the bullet's projected path. Perhaps he was too consumed with hate for Mathias to really care.

"Agent Booth!"

However, Sweets saw what was going on and decided to be the stupid hero that Booth had forbidden him from every becoming. Attempting to achieve the impossible and beat a speeding bullet, Sweets was only able to throw his right hand on Booth's left shoulder and using it as a base to pull his body closer to the special agent so they were facing each other like reflections in a mirror. He wasn't able to complete the second part of his ill-advised plan where he was going to shove Booth and himself to the ground. He was stopped as the bullet finally ripped into the upper left-hand corner of his completely exposed back, traveling straight through his chest with a burning fire until it erupted just below his front chest pocket. Similar to how the psychologist's bullet had propelled Mathias backwards, the force of Mathias's shot caused Sweets' back to arch from the impact. The bloody and disfigured bullet tore through the taunt skin across Booth's right upper arm, drawing a crimson blossom across his nicked ivory dress shirt. But Booth's own injury was forgotten at the sight of his downed friend. A rattling gasp from the unexpectedly sharp pierce of pain was ripped from Sweet's crimson-strained and quivering lips. A forceful cough tore its ragged way through the trembling boy, causing splatters of red to fly from his mouth and speckle both of their shocked faces with blood. Sweets' grip on the agent's left shoulder tightened almost painfully as if the young man needed the support to keep him standing. Then suddenly the young man's grip slackened considerably as if he had decided to give up on remaining vertical after all.


Booth's attention was briefly torn away from his friend when he heard the metal tinkling of Mathias's handgun as he was frantically trying to ready it for another shot at his missed target. Mathias was doing an admirable job of trying to aim his shaking, non-dominant hand, but he didn't have a chance. Booth turned his crimson hazed glare towards the murderer and fired half a clip into the offender's chest. Without even letting out a squawk of pain, Mathias jerked backwards sharply and collapsed into a puddle of his own blood, his once lively gray eyes now dull and glassy.

Booth let the weapon in his hand drop to the floor with a loud clatter and turned his focus back on the fading Sweets. He pressed down on a button on his communication transmitter, praying that someone was there to receive his message. Since it was after hours, he hoped his assumptions were correct that his call would be redirected to the nearest agent.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth. Is anyone out there?"

There was a pause where the only thing Booth heard was Sweets laboring gasp and the faint crackle of air silence. Just hold on, Sweets. With his free arm, Booth tried to keep the trembling young man propped up. The psychologist's limp hand had long since slipped from Booth's shoulder and it was only through sheer will that he had remained standing for so long.

"Booth?" The agent nearly felt his knees give out in relief. He recognized the voice. Thank God. "What's your status?" The voice sounded confused as to why he was receiving a call so late in the night from Booth.

"Ronald Mathias," Booth growled into the walkie-talkie. "He's gon—dead, but we have a man down. I repeat, an officer has been shot."

There was another static-y pause as Booth waited with bated breath for a response. "Are you injured, Booth?"

The agent briefly regarded his own injury before shaking his head. "The other officer is priority Alpha." Sweets swayed violently again and Booth nearly dropped the young man. "Come on, buddy," he muttered under his breath. "Stay with me." He squeezed a few fingers deep into the meat of Sweets' shoulders, hoping to bring the boy out of his reverie. He hated to cause the shrink more pain, but it was necessary to keep him conscious.

Sweets' bright eyes focused sharply for a moment on his support. "Booth…?" the cracked whisper escaped his lips.

"Shhh, just rest for a moment, kid."

"Paramedics have been dispatched. Estimated time of arrival—five to ten minutes." There was another long pause, then "Hold tight, Booth."

Without even clicking the button to respond, Booth murmured a soft thanks under his breath. He dropped his heavy hand from his transmitter on his shoulder and used it further hold up a waning Sweets.

"You holdin' in there, Sweets?" The psychologist merely gagged in response, crimson dribbling over his stained teeth and gums as he tried to smile. Booth felt his gut drop painfully. To have so much bleeding from what could only be his internal organs wasn't good. Based on the position of Sweets' exit wound, it was entirely possible for the bullet to have skewered through one of his lungs.

"I'm going to try to lay you down, okay?" Booth wasn't sure if that was a sloppy nod from Sweets or an exhausted sag, but the young man's head dipped down considerably. However, he decided to take it as a yes, since he doubted the boy could last much longer on his feet. Already blood was pouring from the hole in the young man's chest, dripping down Sweets' freshly laundered suit and dress shirt. Sweets' already pale skin was taking on the hue of bleached eggshells. Booth's own slice stung, but he shoved it aside viciously to focus solely on his downed friend.

Placing both hands on either of Sweet's thin shoulders, Booth carefully twisted the young man around so he could lower him back-first to the ground. Keeping one hand firmly on one of Sweets' shoulders, the agent's other hand was to the boy's back to try to keep it stabilized. His hand on Sweets' back slipped and ran across the bloody entrance hole. Sweets whimpered slightly in pain at the sharp and accidental contact, pulling several frenzied apologies from the older man. Booth felt bile rise in his throat and suddenly had the strong urge to either be sick or to kill someone. Despite his long history with bones and various mutilated bodies, this was especially painful, seeing as it was technically his fault Sweets had been shot. He had been the one to convince the criminal profiler to stay the few extra hours to help catch Mathias. Never could Booth have imagined that this would have been the final outcome.

After quite a bit of painful shuffling, Booth was on the ground and all but cradling the thin, pale psychologist. He pulled Sweets further into his lap in order to get a better view of his exit wound. For a brief, terrifying moment, Booth was reminded of his own daughter. If Sweets hadn't responded the way he did, it was entirely possible that he would have been the one who was dying and unable to see his family again. The thought made the Special Agent's gut twist painfully.

For most of the time, the psychologist had remained relatively alert, cringing and gasping often, but still functioning. The moment Booth got Sweets in a horizontal position, however, was the moment when the young man started to fade away. Sweat matted the young man's brow and his dark brown eyes roamed without sight across the ceiling. Slowly his eyes started to drift closed. Booth pulled off his own bloody tie and pressed it against the injury as hard as he could until the young man whimpered and squirmed below him. He relented slightly on the pressure, but kept the temporary press in place.

"Sweets," Booth lightly shook the injured man. "You can't sleep."

"Tired…" The young genius slurred, squeezing his eyes further shut. "Hurts…"

"I know, buddy," Booth tried to force his voice to stay positive. The uncharacteristic change in his speech pattern caused the psychologist in Sweets to pull him back into the world of the living. The younger's brow scrunched questioningly as his eyes reopened. Thank God, Booth sighed in his mind. Just keep him conscious. "We'll get through this, Lance."

At this point, Sweets was staring at Booth was an odd expression, his lips curled into something that looked like a pained grimace. Worry flood Booth's system. "Is everything alright, Sweets? Can you breathe alright?" The psychologist's rasping breaths were getting more ragged by the second and every so often sprinkles of crimson would explode from his throat.

"That's," the injured young man paused to catch a few rattling gasps before continuing, "first time" he paused again, "called me Lance."

Despite the fragmented sentence, Booth got the gist, though it caught him quite off guard. "What? Really?" He reconsidered his past meetings with the young man. "Can't be."

The grimace, which Booth realized was Sweets' attempt to smile through the pain, grew broader. The young genius seemed to be trying to reclaim his fading strength. "It's my job to know," he rasped. "No Lance, only Sweets."

"Huh," Booth tucked this away for further thought. He had always known the boy's first name, but he never did actually use it.

With this conversation fading to an end, Sweats started to dwindle back into his previously catatonic state. Booth was able to shake him back into consciousness when his phone rang. The shrill sound in the deathly silent room caused Booth to jump, jostling Sweets in the process. The young man whimpered but his eyes remained firmly closed. Booth scrambled to slip the phone from his back pocket just in case it was someone who could help.

"Booth." His greeting was quick and direct.

Bones' worried sigh filled his ear. "Booth, are you alright? An FBI agent came to the Jeff—"

"I'm fine, don't worry." He glanced nervously at Sweets. "But—"

"Some suit just said an officer was down. They didn't say who," Hodgins's relieved voice entered the conversation. Obviously he was in a conference call with Bones and her squints.

"It's Sweets," Booth stated flatly.


"Our Sweets?"


"What happened?"

Booth could hear Cam and a few of the interns in the mix as well now. He hit speaker on his own phone so that Sweets, if he was still miraculously conscious, could hear them too. The young man's eye's fluttered open for a second as the multitude of voices filled the once silent room.

"Mathias came to my office while we were going through some old files," Booth's voice was bitter and furious. No one dared to ask what happened next. "I'll fill in the details later, but Sweets was shot through the back and the bullet came through his left chest."

"That is an interesting position for Sweets to have been shot. It would onl—" Dr. Brennan started to muse out loud.

Booth felt a surge of fury for no particular reason. "Bones!" He hissed. "You can have your hypotheticals later. What do I do now to keep him alive?" He glanced down at the trembling young man in his arms and his frown deepened. The genius's mouth was an interesting shade of purple due to the blue tint to his lips and the staining crimson on his lips. His chest heaved again, drawing more blood to his lips and causing the exit wound to dribble more violently.

Somewhere in the lab, Booth could hear Angela's distant voice as if it were coming from across the ocean. "I've been tracking the ambulance they sent to the Hoover Building since we got the call, but—"

"But what?" Booth pushed urgently.

"Traffic congestion has made it harder for the ambulance to get to you."

"No!" Booth and Sweets had already been waiting for what felt like forever. Booth looked back down at his dying friend. "Come on, Sweets. Get into this conversation." He squeezed the young man's shoulders until his eyes opened up again.

"Stop…'m tired," he slurred again. The psychologist tried to lift his languid arms, but they barely got off the floor.

"Was that Sweets?" Hodgins's worried voice echoed through the phone.

"It is absolutely necessary that you keep him conscious," added Dr. Brennan. "If he loses consciousness for extended periods of time, it will be increasingly difficult to rouse him each time."

"Brennan's right, Seeley," Camille inputted. "You have to make sure he stays awake. Tell him a story, make jokes, I don't care how. Just don't let him sleep."

Booth nodded. "Don't let him sleep. Got it." That's harder than they think it is. "What else can I do?"

He could hear rustling on the other side as if everyone was reshuffling in their seats or if someone was pacing. Cam's warm, calm voice appeared on the line again. "Have you done anything to stop the bleeding?"

Booth looked back at his patient. "I was able to block up the exit wound, but I can't get to the entry hole on his back without flipping him over again. I don't think he wants to do that again," he added as a side comment.

Cam was quiet for a moment. "That should be enough for now, but if you could cover the hole in his back with your hand, that would be best." Booth gently maneuvered his free hand underneath Sweets' sticky back to cover the entrance wound. "Has he coughed up blood yet?"

Based on the way Cam said that, Booth had a feeling he wasn't going to be fond of the answer he was about to receive. "He was coughing up blood the moment the bullet hit him."

"That isn't good, Booth." Brennan's worried voice broke back into the conversation. "If the bullet punctured his lung, it is only a matter of time before it collapses entirely. Booth, is there an Ascherman Chest Seal or a Tension Pneumothorax Access Kit present?"

"A what? I'm in my office—not a hospital, Bones."

"The most beneficial tool would be the Tension Pneumothorax Access Kit since it would be able to reverse the damage temporarily of the collapsed lung. Perhaps if you dismantle an ink pen and insert the—"

"Booth," Hodgins's voice interrupted Doctor Brennan's intro to amateur lung surgery speech. "Ange said the traffic issue was sorted out so they'll be there in ten minutes, tops. What you've done so far should be good enough to keep Sweets alive until they get there."

"Yeah, but should I look for one of those Ashley Chest things or whatever the other thing was?" Booth really had no medical experience, but the shallow gasps that were being ripped from Sweets' heaving chest were not good. "He's having difficulty breathing."

"Hodgins is right," Cam added. "The materials that you are keeping over his wounds are keeping the oxygen from leaving through his chest cavity. Breathing will be painful but possible. Now just keep Sweets conscious."

"I can do that." Booth set the phone by his side so he could still hear them if necessary. With his free hand he pressed down further on the blood soaked tie with a groan of distaste. The sound of squelching fabric made frozen shudders run up Booth's spine when he realized that meant the tie was completely saturated in Sweets' blood. The pressure caused Sweets to fidget uncomfortably.

"Stop…" he mumbled again. "Please…"

"Wake up, Sweets, or I'll press harder." Booth was curious to see if he was still able to intimidate a semi-delirious psychologist. The young man obediently opened his dark eyes, but they were unfocused and drooping. "Come on, Sweets. You gotta get through this."

"Why?" The shrink's voice took on a surprisingly hostile tone.

This took Booth back quite a bit. "Cam, is it normal for him to be so…angry?"

"It's probably the pain," Hodgins stole the answer instead. His voice lowered significantly. "I know it isn't the same, but when Ange was giving birth, she was enti—" the entomologist cut off sharply as Angela probably came to the gathered group of squints.

"Attitude or not, Seeley, Sweets was shot through the lungs. Keep him talking, even if it makes no sense."

"The massive amount of blood loss most likely has caused minor delirium to settle in," Dr. Brennan added unhelpfully.

"Right." Hodgins's mention of family sparked an idea in Booth's head to keep Dr. Sweets awake. "Hey, Sweets, buddy, wake up. Stay with us." Sweets' raving gaze darted across the ceiling not unlike the former stare of the late Ronald Mathias. "I wouldn't want to be forced to explain how you gave up to your godchild."

The young man's eyes sharpened at the word. "Wha…?" he slurred. He narrowed his eyes and attempted to muddle through the problem with his "skrinky powers." A part of him had expected Booth to spurt of random nonsense to keep him engaged, but this certainly wasn't it.

"Yeah, you don't want Christine to have to endure your funeral."

There was massive shushing on the other side of the phone line. Most likely Booth's partner had made a critical remark on Booth's phrasing of the line and the others were trying to get her to shut up so they could hear what was going on with Booth and Sweets.

Booth's attempts to draw Sweets back into reality proved to be successful. After a painful, bloody gasp, the young genius shuffled himself to try to sit up.

"Hold up there for a second, Sweets. Just stay put." Booth gently guided the young man back down with his free hand.

"I…don't…understand," Sweets murmured.

"You're Uncle Sweets," he started with a smile, despite the fact that he was fairly certain that glossy film had slipped back over the psychologist's eyes again. "Behind Angela and Hodgins and Max, you're next to take care of her if something happens to us. You're going to be her godfather, but only if you stay awake. If you fall asleep again, I'll give the job to Fisher."

It was obvious that Sweets wanted desperately to stay awake and earn his spot as a potential godfather, but the exhaustion and lack of blood was finally starting to become impossible to stave off.

"That was very kind of you, Booth," the special agent heard buzz from his cell phone. Booth smiled and briefly tore his gaze from the still Sweets.

"We don't have to do it. He probably won't even remember this conversation later."

Dr. Brennan was quite for a moment. "But I want to do it. Christine is very fond of her Uncle Sweets. I do not think he is a particularly bad choice for a potential caregiver, despite the fact that his career rests upon unproven hypotheses about unpredictable occurrences in human nature."

Booth chuckled lightly. "Are you going to let her say that about your job, Sweets?" Booth's gaze jerked back Sweets, who had closed his eyes again. "Sweets?" He dug into the boy's injury to try to wake him up again. "Sweets? Wake up!"

"What's going on, Booth?"

"Sweets isn't waking up again." For one of the first times that night, Booth was finally starting to get scared. He shook the young man harder than he had before. "Wake up! Sweets!" Stupid, stupid. Why weren't you watching him, Booth? He chastised himself.

"Is he breathing?" some intern's worried tone broke through Booth's thoughts.

An icy claw grabbed Booth's heart and threatened to pull it out of his throat. His desperate eyes scoured the young man's chest for any sign of a weak rise or fall, but the kid was incredibly still. "No."

"Does he have a pulse?"

Booth dug his sticky crimson fingers underneath Sweets' neck. It took a while, but he was finally able to discern a faint and slow pounding against his fingertips. "Yes, he has a pulse, but it's weak. It's fading." Please, God. Don't let him die.

On the other side of the phone, the doctors were in a flurry trying to figure out the best course of action.

"Booth," Angela's voice broke through the din first. "The ambulance is only two minutes away."

"I'm not sure he can make it that long." Booth pressed an ear to Sweets' thin chest. The warm blood filtered into his ear. No… "Oh, no. God, no…"

"What is it?"

"His heart—it stopped beating."

"Are you sure?" Brennan's voice was starting to lose its emotionless tone.

"Of course I'm sure. I had my ear to his chest and I couldn't feel anything." Booth paused for a moment. "I have to do CPR."

"No! Don't! That'll cause more blood to pump out of him. With a bullet hole so close to his heart, you'll bleed him out in minutes!"

"If he doesn't perform CPR, Sweets will die immediately or he'll sustain serious brain damage from lack of oxygen."

"The ambulance is almost there!"

The Jeffersonian was a mess as each doctor screamed their advice at Booth. Their arguing and his lack of medical knowledge made it incredibly stressful on the special agent. In the end, he prayed Angela was right in that the ambulance was close by. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Booth pulled his hand from underneath Sweets' back, cringing at the sticky crimson stains on his hand. The psychologist didn't even flinch at the action; he didn't even move. Booth pressed both hand on the young man's chest, careful not to press directly on the bullet wound, and started his compressions. He tipped back the young man's neck and made a brief face before pinching his nose and crushing his lips to the shrink's mouth. The salty iron taste of blood nearly made Booth gag, but he delivered the two rescue breaths and returned to the compressions. It felt like he was doing the same motion forever. Press…press…press…breathe…press…press…press… Sweets still wasn't breathing, but he wasn't going to give up on him. Sweets save his life—they needed to be even.

"Dammit, Sweets," Booth growled as he started another set of compressions. "Come back!"

The blood was pooling around his hands like one of the squints had predicted. The multitude of colors shocked and disgusted Booth: his blue lips from lack of oxygen; his ivory, bloodless skin; his dark, sweat-sticky hair; all of the crimson blood. The amount of blood was overwhelming.

Suddenly a voice echoed down the hall. "Hello? Seeley Booth?"

Booth thought he was imagining things until he saw the flash of white from the uniforms of the paramedics. "Here!" he croaked. "We're in here!"

The medics swarmed into the room, stepping over the body of Mathias as if it wasn't there. "What happened, Special Agent Booth?"

"Sweets—his heart stopped." Booth was ready to dive into another set of compressions when one of the paramedics pulled the older man away from the younger. "What are you doing? You can't stop it or he'll die."

"We'll do what we can, sir," one of the paramedic's assured Booth as they tried to pull him from the painfully cold young man. "But you must understand—"

"What are you taking about? Don't you dare say you can't save h—"


While the same incessant medic tried to patch up Booth's nick from the bullet, three other paramedics had already set up the defibrillators and had let the first charge pump through the psychologist's chest. Sweets' prone body jerked in the air like a broken ragdoll. The sight nearly ripped apart Booth's own heart. Whatever the medics had done, it didn't work since they set up for another attempt.


Booth cringed as his coworker's chest bucked in the air again. There was a faint burning smell, but Booth quickly shoved the bile in his stomach back down. Instead of prepping for their next attempt, the head medical officer silently set down his paddles. They each checked for the young man's pulse, but their straight faces did not change to indicate good or bad news. Booth thought he saw the faint rise and fall of Sweet's chest, but it was entirely possible he was delusional.

"Will he make it?" Booth heard his voice, distant and tinny, echo weakly through the room. No one answered his question, but a small gurney was wheeled into the bloodstained office. He held his breath as they carefully lifted the psychologist onto the stretcher. He waited for the awful moment of the head paramedic pulling over the cloth while checking his watch for time of death, but it never happened. They simply just wheeled the still prone form of Sweets out of the office and out of his sight.

Seeing as his first few methods didn't work, he decided to show a little bluster. Turning to the annoying medic who was trying to sew stitches in his arm, he managed to pull out his badge. "I'm an FBI agent and you just wheeled away my partner. It is absolutely necessary that I am informed about his condition. If he's dead and you refuse to tell me, I can arrest you for obstruction of justice, since a murder would have taken place."

Great. Now I sound like one of those lawyers I hate.

However, the only other person in the room with him simply sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, but regardless of what happens, you can check the hospital tomorrow. He'll either be alive or dead. It's really up to chance now."

I think I did a bad thing 'cause I think I'm leaving it here xD
Thanks for reading!