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“Whoa, you really did that to yourself?” Booth asks, his face shaken. He’s seen countless dead bodies but nothing has shook him quite like the lines of red and white on Sweets’ arms. Self mutilation, he couldn’t understand why someone would do that to themselves.
“Most of them are old.” Sweets replies while tugging down his sleeves, cursing internally for letting them ride up in the first place. “Let’s get back to the case.” He can’t look Booth in the eyes.
“No, we need to talk about this. You nearly died a week ago and now you’re acting like nothing happened.”
“Nothing did happen. Booth, all I did was cut too deeply. I wasn’t trying to kill myself or anything like that.” It’s the half truth. He had been thinking of suicide but he’d stopped himself in the moment. There was just enough to live for. “Let's just forget about it and focus on work.”
“You had to have a blood transfusion. You had bandages on both your arms. Do you know how pale you looked? Bones looked at all your medical files and said you would have died if you didn’t get to the hospital right then and there. So, no, I can’t focus on work. I need you to explain this to me.” He said sternly, a controlled expression on his face.
“I used to cut as a teenager. It’s a coping mechanism really. I was an angsty teenager. I stopped when my parents found out but recently I began doing it again. I don’t have an explanation for why I do it, it’s just something that I do.” Sweets explains, still not really looking at Booth. The scars itch but he doesn’t dare touch them.
“You just…cut your skin open?” Booth asks, intrigued. There’s no reply. “You know, you’re a vital member of our team. What are we supposed to do if you bleed out and you can’t get to the hospital in time?” Booth remembers the bathroom floor, once white tiles now stained crimson. He’d gone to get a change of clothes and he’d entered a fake crime scene.
“You all survived without me originally. I’m not the only FBI psychologist so you can replace me.” There’s not a tone of doubt in his voice and Booth feels his heart tear apart. He didn’t realise just how insecure Sweets really was about himself.
The blade was placed in the sink, old blood stained on it. It was placed on the sink because he was going to use it again. Booth threw it away but he already knows that there’s been a replacement. Sweets wasn’t a child, he had his own life and Booth couldn’t remember every sharp object from his reach. As much as he yearned to.
“We can’t replace you. Someone could take your place but they couldn’t replace you. And you’ve helped us so much, we catch killers so much faster with your profiles. Stop undermining yourself. You’re the only FBI psychologist that we want to work with.”
Sweets crosses his arms, even with the blazer Booth can sense the scars. “I’m not going to die, I won’t let it get that bad again. It was never meant to get that far. I had a really bad day and I thought that it would make me feel better. It did make me feel better until it became out of my control.” He explains, choking on his own words.
“How can it make you feel better?”
“It releases endorphins which is a feel good chemical in the brain.”
“Surely you could do something else. Other things release endorphins, right?” He asks, genuinely curious.
“A lot of things release endorphins. Cutting - it’s a dangerous habit but it’s also just a habit. Some people drink too much but I cut up my skin instead. I’m not going to stop.” Sweets explains.
His body in the hospital bed, small and lifeless. The faint breathing, the blood bag. Booth could barely look at him. Sweets was sort of annoying and he talked too much but this - Sweets should never be in a situation like this. He realised then just how much Sweets meant to him, not just a psychologist but a close friend. He couldn’t lose Sweets, it would hurt too much.
“You have to stop, we can’t lose you.” He doesn’t say what he should say, which is ‘I can’t lose you.’
“I stopped once and I just relapsed. I don’t want to stop. I know that it’s messed up, before my parents died I made a promise to them that I’d never do it again but I’m too weak to stop it. I’ve already let them down, I can’t go back from that.” The self hatred oozes out. Booth had never known someone to hate themselves that much.
“You can try again, we’d all be willing to help you. Your parents would understand. You’re not weak, don’t try to act like you are. Would you ever tell one of your patients that they're weak?” For once, Sweets looks directly at Booth.
“Relapses are common in recovery. I’d tell my patients to think about what made them repeat the habit and I’d give them tools so they can stop it before it happens again.” He explains, his tone too professional as if he is speaking to a patient.
“So apply that to yourself.”
“It’s not that easy Booth. I’m the psychologist, not the patient.”
Booth grows a stern expression on his face. “Do you know what it was like seeing the doctors give you a blood transfusion while you were unconscious, or going to your apartment and seeing your bathroom? It reminded me of half the crime scenes I’ve attended. I was terrified for you, you’re the youngest on our team and you’re in so much pain that you have to cut your skin open. I can’t stop you from doing that but losing you will kill me.” He half shouts, trying desperately to get the message through.
Sweets stares dumbfounded. “I never realised how much it hurts other people. I’m really sorry. I never wanted anyone to have to see me like that.”
His arm covered in blood that slowly drips down to the floor. Skin becoming paler by the minute. How quickly everything could come to an end. “Don’t be sorry, especially not to me. Instead, put in the effort to get better.”