"Just how close to death do you want to get?" He hears the menacing voice before his eyes clear enough to see Jerry Tyson's face looming large in front of him. He hears the gun cock, feels a rush of air leave his lungs, and he isn't sure he'll ever be able to catch his breath, ever be able to breathe again. He thinks this is much closer to death than he ever wanted to be, and considers saying so, but he's not sure that talking is going to help him. As he considers it, he hears the pull of a trigger, the whooshing sound of a bullet forced through the barrel, watches as it heads straight for his skull, unable to move out of its way. The last thing he thinks is I never got to tell her I love her.
Just as he feels it pierce his skin, he opens his eyes, shoots up. He realizes that he's in his bedroom, and tries to slow his breathing, telling himself it was only a dream, feels the sweat on his body turn cold as it hurts the cool air of his room. He wipes his forehead, tries to force the images out of his head. He glances at the clock. 3:30 am. He grunts, frustrated that he has lost yet another night of sleep, knows he can't possibly close his eyes and risk reliving it all again. So he gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen, pours himself a cool glass of water, tries to will his heart to stop slamming into his chest.
He thinks maybe he can write some, get the fear still clogging his throat onto a page, make it as authentic as it can get for his fictional characters. So he sits down, starts typing, and gets lost in his other world, safe from nightmares and guns and triple killers.
He shows up to the precinct early, before 8:00, since he had been awake for so many hours and couldn't stand the silence of the loft anymore. He knows he doesn't look great, his lack of sleep from the past couple of weeks creating dark circles under his eyes. He knows he's slower to smile, slower to crack a joke or make an innuendo, and so far, Kate has graciously said nothing, just trying to give him the space to breathe. But he doesn't want to just breathe, just go through the motions. He wants to tell her. He knows that last thought, that last coherent sentence before he opens his eyes, is the truth. He has known it for some time, but now it's forced itself into the forefront of his mind, and he can't shake it.
"Hey, Castle. You're here early." Her voice cuts into his thoughts. She can't hide the concern behind her words.
"Yeah. Couldn't really sleep." His sentences are dull, a shadow of the extensive vocabulary that he usually puts to good use. It pains her to see him like this, and she realizes this must be how he feels when she looks like she might shatter from the weight of it all. And then it occurs to her that maybe she can reach out to him, use some of her pain to lighten his load.
"Nightmares?" she asks, keeping her voice steady. He looks up at her, surprised, wondering how she could see through him so easily.
"Yeah," he finally responds, unable to contain the chill that runs through his spine at the memories of it all.
"Well, no body today. Just paperwork. Why don't you go home and try to sleep? Sometimes it's not so bad with a little daylight." She doesn't really want him to leave, but she's willing to put her selfishness aside if it means he'll stop looking so tired.
"I wouldn't be able to sleep. I'd rather just hang out. Unless you want me to go?" As he's talking, he thinks that maybe she's kicking him out, doesn't want him around like this.
Just as she's about to tell him that isn't what she meant, Esposito's voice breaks through their conversation. "Body just dropped," he states calmly as he hangs up his phone. "Ready?"
And then they're all off, heading to the newest crime scene to try to piece together the puzzle of another life lost.