A/N: Alrighty, last chapter! Thank you guys for reading and for leaving wonderful reviews! Also, I thought I'd end up answering LMC's question in the narrative, but I'm not really clear, so I'll just say that in my head, he does return to his job, just not to the field. Hope that answers it!

Edit: Took out the Daredevil reference! Thanks for the feedback; I decided it kind of ruined the tone of the story, too, so~~ Aah, anyway, thanks again for reading/reviewing! You're the best!

It's halfway through August by the time they finally send him home.

It's at a point where he can walk well enough on his own, and it's at a point where he's placed enough trust in the people around him to accept their directions and their help. He's still skinnier than he ever used to be, and to everyone around, he still looks far too breakable, but regardless – he's going home.

The drive is long and loud, with the rush of passing cars and the sounds of the city coming at him from all sides. It is in the back seat of Booth's SUV, as he leans against the window, where he suddenly realizes something else: "I can't drive anymore."

The hint of sadness in his voice is small, and it's mainly said as an incontestable statement, rather than any indication of mourning. Still, neither Booth nor Brennan have any idea what to say to that.

The loss for the right words continues on, especially when they pull up to their destination. Even entering his own apartment, Sweets seems lost and misplaced. While the hospital provided him with a white cane, and while he's more or less figured out how to use it by now, he still manages to earn himself a fair amount of tender bruises by his elbows and hips, directly in line with all the furniture he continues to bump into.

The frustration swings back in full force, and he finds just enough energy to flop face down onto his couch and stay there. He doesn't need a cane – or even his eyes – to do that.

A hand starts shaking him by his shoulders after who knows how long.

Not that it startles him. He was already awake, and he knows it's Booth. He heard Brennan leave, and to his knowledge, no one else ever came in since.

He hums a response, not bothering to form words until he knows what Booth wants.

"Come on," the agent is saying softly, his hand still resting by the edge of Sweets' shoulder. "You should get up. Doctors said you have to keep getting used to your apartment, and lying on the couch won't help you do it."

"Not right now."

Sweets lets out a pent up breath and directs it upwards, so he can feel the slight movement of his hair by the top of his forehead. The weight of Booth's hand is still ever-present on his shoulder.

"Nope. Come on, Sweets – time to start doing things. If you want, we can go somewhere else instead. Grab something to eat, maybe. Whatever you want."

"I'm not hungry. My head hurts."

He says it first to be an excuse, but the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks it's the truth. The dull ache is back, making the back of his head pulse uncomfortably – but he supposes this is just one less thing to weigh down on his conscience.

Booth doesn't say anything to that at first, and for a moment, Sweets considers closing his eyes again and going right back to sleep, but decides against it. He can't quite see the point in that, either.

He hears Booth sigh from somewhere out in the living room, offer a quiet, "Fine."

And after a few more seconds, there's the sound of Booth walking across the room to where the bookcase might have been before; there's the sound of rummaging.

"Why don't we put something on, then? Huh? A DVD or something."

Scratch the bookcase, then. It must be the television set Booth is standing by; if Sweets can remember correctly, he keeps every disc he owns on a rack just next to it. Not that he has much use for them anymore anyway. He opens his mouth and starts to lament that fact, but Booth beats him to it.

The rummaging having stopped, Booth's voice echoes across the room.

"'The X-Files: the Complete First Season.' How about it, Sweets? You love that show."

He doesn't need to be reminded. Still, his voice is flat as he answers.

"I've seen every episode twice." And he supposes he'll never properly see them again.

The television set turns on with a crackle and a click, and the sound of the DVD tray sliding out is nice. It's familiar.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," Booth says, and before Sweets can say anything more, the agent is gently pulling him up into a sitting position so he can sit beside him as the show starts. And at first, it's all ominous music. But then it fades into the sound of someone running, someone breathing hard, and Booth starts to talk over it: "There's a girl running through the woods. She's got long red hair, and she's not wearing any shoes. All she's got on is a white nightgown. The trees around her are moving with the wind, and it looks like something's following her…."

A smile creeps its way onto his face throughout the first episode without his noticing; and by the end of it, he finds he's perfectly willing to move on to the second. Then the third. The fourth.

They spend the night that way, until Booth finally notices the time and sets off for the guest room down the hall. Sweets eventually finds his way to his bedroom without any more bruises.

They spend the next week that way, until Sweets knows his own apartment well enough again to manage on his own.

"I'm trusting you on this one… okay? I'm trusting you," Sweets says, only half joking. He's got a pair of shaded glasses in his hands, and he's trying his best to feel how the frames must look. Hodgins told him they were square, but that wasn't good enough. Once he's got an idea – square-looking wire frames, curved by the corners, not too long – he carefully slides them onto his face and asks the people in front of him how they look.

Angela's hum of disapproval is certainly not lost.

"I don't think a square frame works," she's saying, gently pulling them off Sweets' face without warning. He only hears her grabbing different sets from the wall behind him and analyzing them out loud. "A square frame sort of matches the angle of your eyebrows, but that's it. It doesn't match the shape of your face or anything else…. These might work. Feel these."

A pair of circular – no, oval-shaped – frames are placed into his hand, and he considers the pair. He puts them on without a word.

"Perfect," Angela says, and Hodgins echoes her.

"I like them."

"You're sure?" Sweets is asking the both of them. And he receives silence as an answer at first, and then a rushed hum of affirmation.

"We were nodding," Hodgins admits, and then apologizes for it.

"It's fine," Sweets says, half-way smiling. "I figured. Thank you."

Someone thrusts a piece of paper into his hands without warning, and after a second of confusedly looking out into the air, Brennan remembers to announce herself. There's something in her voice, he thinks – something akin to excitement. And as they're sitting back in Sweets' apartment as opposed to the Jeffersonian, with furniture and pictures around them instead of bones, he would be interested in knowing what's got her so happy.

He supposes the paper in his hands has something to do with it. There's just one problem with that.

"You know I can't read this, right?" he says, and Brennan doesn't reply until she's got him by the hand and is leading him to somewhere across the room.

"I am aware," she answers, matter-of-fact as always, as she sits him down on a familiar padded bench. He smells the fresh lacquer on the piano that's always been there, hears and feels Brennan sit down next to him and continue. "Feel the paper."

He does as he's told. It doesn't help much.

"Still can't read it. I don't know Braille yet."

"Then I'll tell you what it is," she decides. As she explains it, Sweets doesn't move his fingers off the page. "It's sheet music. There's a whole different organizational system for Braille music, and I'm confident you'll learn it quickly. Statistically, the average person learns Braille in about four months, and with your high intelligence and aptitude, I expect you'll be affluent long before then."

He smiles; he thinks for a moment that it's the closest thing to a compliment he's ever heard from her.

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan," he says, and he means every syllable. He pauses for just a moment. "What… what song is it?"

"It's a simple song. I know your skill level on the piano is much higher, but nevertheless… it's an arrangement of Jay Ungar's Ashokan Farewell."

Gently, Sweets reaches forward and lifts the cover off the keys. His smile doesn't fade.

"I actually know it. My mom actually taught me how to play it. One of the first things I learned."

He runs his hands over the keys, his fingertips going back and forth over the cool plastic. He hesitates.

And he plays what he can remember, nearly bringing himself to tears. He never needed to see the piano to play; after all, he'd done it with his eyes closed countless times.

From the first note to the very last chord, for just these two short minutes – it's as if nothing changed.

Five months since the day Sweets came home, on some early morning in late January, every member of the team is woken by the same case; it reminds them all of one crucial thing: Problems never just disappear.

Especially not when those problems go by the name of Christopher Pelant. Problems like him – they linger. And they taunt.

His next message for them comes in the form of another body, dumped unceremoniously in a far too familiar way.

The case begins with the remains being moved to the Jeffersonian, but the wheels start moving in Booth's office, with Sweets leaning against the edge of the desk, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He hears the muted clicks of the mouse and the rhythm of the older man's typing, and once it fades into silence – well, he's got a fair idea of what the agent must be looking at.

"What does the crime scene look like?" the profiler asks carefully, if the slightest bit impatiently. As if he wants to hear the answer but is afraid of what it might be. It comes in due time.

Booth lets out a heavy sigh, already on edge.

"A body dumped in the woods by a picnic table," he says. "Just like the one last year from one of your papers. Except... after the victim died, someone... there's a hole in the back of the skull."

And then there's silence, a long stretch of nothing between them. Then Sweets speaks, his voice quiet - but still holding power in it that Booth hasn't heard in a long, long time.

"We're gonna catch him," he says, and he leaves it at that. Whether it's to assure Booth or himself is anyone's guess, but regardless -

Booth places a hand on the psychologist's shoulder and firmly nods.

"Yeah," he agrees. "We will."

A beat.

"Let's get to work."

A/N: And here would be the end of the alternate ending, where it would segway back into the series canon. Thanks again for reading you guys! Leave one last review?

PS - if any of the regular anonymous reviewers (you know who you are) have other social media accounts, please let me know! I'd love to reply to reviews sometimes, or just follow y'all in general haha. Thanks!