A/N: I know this has already been done before—and I tried to fight writing it—but I couldn't help myself. As of now, it's tentatively complete, but we'll see. Drop me a review if you make it to the end!

The title and lyrics are from David Gray's beautiful "Slow Motion," specifically: While I was watching, you did a slow dissolve.

-x-

Life in slow motion,
Sometimes it don't feel real.

-x-

In the moments that follow the shot, Beckett can only vaguely register the noise around her, a hazy cloud of fear and panic and ohgodohgodohgod.

Time seems to slow to a lazy crawl, even as the world explodes into motion. She takes a second to wonder if she should have known this was coming, to wonder if this has been there for her to see from the beginning. She pushes the thoughts from her mind, though, as she starts to distinguish individual voices over the shouts and screams. There's Ryan calling for help, his words shaking only a little. And Esposito, too, directing the crowds, even though Beckett knows his eyes are locked on Lanie.

And as instincts force her to move when her heart cannot, she wonders if she should take a moment to tell everyone else they don't need to worry—the shooter is long gone by now. They was here for her, have done what they came to do, and there's no reason to wait and see if she has gotten the message.

They already know she has.

The noise around her fades to a dull roar again, as she watches the blood seep through the wound, warm and red and utterly damning. It's coating her gloves, and it's too fast, too horrible, too much. She thinks that maybe she should say something reassuring to fill her silence, but she can't seem to find her voice to say anything at all—which might be for the best, since she doesn't think she would have been able to find the right words. That was never her strong suit, anyway. (She hears, a distant ringing in her ears, You don't know me, Castle. You think you do, but you don't.)

Then there's another voice she recognizes. Martha. Asking what's happening, asking why. Her voice carries clearly, always the actress, but the fear in her tone is real, is something Beckett's never heard from her before. Should never have had to hear.

And then there's—oh, God—there's Alexis, close behind her grandmother. Her voice, soft and small, calling, "Dad? Dad!"

And Beckett has always thought Alexis was remarkably mature for her age, but there is nothing grown-up about the way her voice is cracking, or the way her tears are streaking down her pale cheeks. It's then that Beckett realizes she will be the cop Alexis remembers if Castle doesn't make it. She will be the one to say,I'm so sorry, to take away her last hope, to take away her father from her. That understanding settles in the pit of her stomach with the heaviness of an anchor, wrought with guilt and the pounding echo of your fault, your fault that's been swirling around her head since the shot rang out.

It's quiet again as she glances back down at Castle. His eyelids have started to flutter, but he's trying to look at her. There's panic there, yes, but something else, too. His mouth opens and closes, and she knows he wants to say something, but can't. His eyes stay closed for longer this time before they open again.

She swallows tightly. Finds her voice for him. "No, Castle, no, no, no," she says, and her voice is frantic, desperate. "You're fine; you're going to be fine."

He looks at her again, and she wants to reach up and touch his cheek, to smooth away the pain that's settling in the lines of his face. But she can't, of course; her hands are pressed to his chest, still bearing witness to the life that's pouring out of him.

The world cuts in—Ryan, Ambulance is at the gates, Beckett—then back out again as Castle shifts under her hands.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs, and she thinks she sees his head tilt to the side a little. Don't be, she imagines he is trying to say. And she thinks she might be crying now, but she doesn't know for sure, and she wants to tell him something else, tell him how much he means to her, how much she wishes the bullet had been for her, but she doesn't know where to start. She has never known where to start.

Then, before she can say a word, his eyes close with a horrible finality, and the world lurches around her.

"Please don't do this," she whispers, voice breaking. "Please, Rick." She stops, swallows. "I–" She stops again as the words catch painfully. She swallows them, feels their jagged edges slicing all the way down. "Please," she says again, says instead. "You can't leave me."

Then there is a hand at her shoulder—Esposito, C'mon, Beckett, the paramedics are here—so she pulls back her hands and hates that she no longer has the slow thrum of his heartbeat as reassurance that she hasn't lost everything already.

There's noise around her again as the EMTs spring into motion. She stands and backs out of the way and everything spins around her and all she can see are his eyes closing again and again.

And Martha and Alexis are right beside her, closer than she had realized. Ryan and Esposito are still there, too, gazes sliding from Beckett to Castle and back again. She watches as they load Castle onto the stretcher, feeling small and helpless and every other emotion she hates, and tries not to listen to words like lost alot of blood already.

And they're moving to take him away, asking who's family, then waving Martha and Alexis forward. She wants to reach out to Alexis before she goes, say she's sorry, but her gloves are covered in her father's blood, bright red that she doubts will ever wash out, so she lets them go without a word.

She watches the paramedics take Castle away, then glances down at her gloves again, feels the bile rising in her throat. She tears them off, only to realize she has nowhere to put them. Ryan appears, evidence bag from who-knows-where in hand, and watches her grimly as she drops them in. Esposito reappears, too, touches her arm briefly, nods once. Beckett realizes after a moment they will be canvassing the cemetery for evidence and the casing she knows isn't there.

They don't say anything before they leave—don't need to tell her that it is her job to go to the hospital and theirs to look for whoever did this. Later, they tell her silently. Later, they will join her, whatever the outcome is.

Then they are gone, leaving the silence is their wake. The cemetery is mostly empty, the crowds having dispersed and been directed to safety, and Beckett looks toward Montgomery's grave, wanting his quiet strength and wishing so many things had turned out differently.

And as she takes a step, starts what she knows will be a slow, painful trip to the hospital, she remembers her words from before with a perfect, mocking clarity.You know what we are, Castle? She swallows. We are over.

She swears, then, she will tell him when he wakes up. But even as she tries to convince herself, she's aware that it's a fool's promise, hollow and empty. Beckett knows as well as anyone you don't survive gunshots like that.

And that, of course, was their point.

They have stolen her mother, her mentor, her captain, and now her—her Castle, too.

Their message is clear, has always been clear: They will take away everyone she loves, and there is nothing she can do to stop them.