A/N: I don't usually do short, but this one shot lodged in my brain earlier today and stayed there until I let it out. Post The Corpse in the Conspiracy, Booth struggles with Sweets' loss.

The day had been long, nighmarishly so, but he couldn't sleep. They'd come home a few hours earlier to see Christine and get some rest before resuming their hunt for the killers, but as soon as he'd closed his eyes, he'd known there would be no sleep for him that night. So he'd moved out to the living room so as not to bother Brennan, where he sat, brooding, in the dark.

Sweets was dead.

Dead.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, willed the images away. What was worse? The memory of his friend being autopsied, or a thousand happier ones that would never be repeated, because he was DEAD, and Booth hadn't stopped it?

Another young man Booth should have protected. Just like Teddy. ...No, not a soldier. That was the problem. Why the hell hadn't it occurred to him that sending Sweets off to serve that warrant by himself was a suicide mission?

"It's not your fault." Her voice was quiet, coming unexpectedly out of the shadows.

"Isn't it?" The words were bitter on his tongue.

Brennan came over and sat down, legs curled under her, facing him. "You know it's not."

"No, Bones. I don't know that. I know they're killing everyone they see as a threat and that he didn't have the instincts to protect himself. I should have served that damned warrant! I might as well have put a gun to his head, sending him to do it."

"You didn't send him. He chose to go. And it's the fault of the man who killed him, just as when Broadsky killed Mr. Nigel-Murray, and Pelant killed Agent Flynn."

"This is different." He stood, paced away, the lingering discomfort of his own injuries welcome. "This was Sweets. He's a nerdy shrink, for God's sake. These guys have killed everyone who they viewed as an obstacle, and he wouldn't be much of one. I should have known that."

"You're doing him a disservice." Her voice was flat. "He deserves better than that from you."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"He was an agent, Booth. He'd passed his weapons recertification again just five weeks ago. And he got more field time than most profilers."

"Shrinks don't belong in the field."

"Neither do scientists." The edge to her voice was an unmistakable.

"No, you don't. But I'm there to protect you."

She came off the couch, stalked over to stand in front of him, her expression fierce as she poked him in the chest. "Which is why I saved your life during the ambush."

"This is different."

"No. It's not. Remember what he said? 'I fought back.' Don't take that away from him. He could have been in private practice, and wasn't, because he wanted to work in law enforcement."

"And he's dead! God, Bones." He spun away, unable to face her. "He was going to be a father, and now he's dead."

"You are a father, and nearly died last spring. Isn't that the risk of being in law enforcement? He knew that."

He brought his hands up, rubbed his eyes. How to make her understand?

Her arms came around him from behind, and he felt her forehead against his back. "His badge meant as much to him as yours does to you. With his last breath, he wanted you to be proud of him. He needed that. He knew the risk. Don't take that away from him."

Slowly, he brought his hands up, covered hers.

"If you're responsible for what happened to him, it lessens the value of his choices. Don't do that to him."

"I was proud of him." His voice hoarse, he turned, wrapped his arms around her, and felt his heart break. "God, Bones."

Together, they grieved.