Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

He knows he's tired, knows his cognitive senses might be slightly compromised by too much junk food, too much booze, too little sleep, and too little exercise in the last couple of days, but he's sober. He's totally sober, and this makes no sense. This is Beckett? It can't be. Doesn't sound like her at all. Should he call? She told him not to call, said she'd call. But she hasn't. But she just texted him and asked him to come keep her company. Should he text her back? WTH? WTF?

Each time he reads her text the less sense it makes. On the fifth go-round his heart speeds up. This is a hoax. Or a cruel joke. Or a trap. This isn't Beckett. She wouldn't identify herself, say "this is Beckett," at the end of her text. Wouldn't need to. Oh, wait. He's got it. It's Davidson. Now he really wishes that he'd punched the jerk's lights out in the hospital that night, after her surgery. Doctor Motorcycle Boy is using Beckett's phone to taunt him. What a sick bastard.

Castle needs to think about this for a minute. Beckett is at her father's cabin, that's the only thing he's sure of. What if she really is all by herself and Josh isn't with her? What if he abandoned her and left her to fend for herself in some rustic hellhole with mice and spiders and possibly snakes and no insulation and bad electrical wiring and God only knows what outside? It dawns on him that there's an easy way to find out. Easy peasy, you son of a bitch. Castle stabs the hospital number into his phone and asks for the cardiologist. Two transfers later he's in the right department.

"Doctor Davidson is making night rounds," the nurse at the desk says, "but he'll be free in ten minutes. Would you care to leave a message or a voicemail, Mister Castle?"

No, Mister Castle would not. Mister Castle would not care to leave anything but a death threat. But he says, "Thank you so much, Nurse Fredricks, no need to bother the doctor. It's not urgent at all. I'll catch up with him another time." Another time when he will take him apart with his own scalpel, since he is not where a Real Boyfriend and a Real Doctor should be, which is with Kate.

Why isn't he with Kate, anyway? Is her father with her? Should he call Jim? Jim seems to like him, trust him. But it's after midnight, much too late to phone unless it's an emergency. Is this an emergency? Beckett asked him to come keep her company—assuming it's Beckett who texted and not an axe murderer who is holding her hostage and luring Castle to the cabin.

"You're a writer, for Christ's sake," he says to himself. "Analyze this text. It's sixty-five words. What's the subtext? Is there a subtext? Gotta be one. It's Beckett. If it's Beckett." He decides to take it apart as if it were a homicide investigation or a book that he's plotting, so he creates a new document on his computer and begins to map it out.

The easy stuff first. The coffee. She has the coffee that he gave her, the Jamaican Blue. What's it doing at the cabin? His heart eases a little. She has his coffee, she chose his coffee! Not the swill she usually drinks at home. She must have brought it with her, except that's not possible, given her condition. Did she ask someone to bring it to her? Who? No one from the Twelfth has seen her. Neither has Lanie. Did Josh deliver it and then hightail out of there on his stupid motorcycle? Did Jim?

Shit, this is much harder than he thought. Okay. Take another tack. She says she wants company and—

The phone chirps again. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds the cell in his hand as if it were either a hand grenade or a love letter. He slowly opens one eye. Beckett! It's been 20 minutes since her first text.

"Are you coming to visit me? Cuh cuh cuh Casssstle, beautiful Castle! Do you know that song? When I was little it was Kuh kuh kuh Kaaaatie, beautiful Katie! So it can be our song! We have a song! I need my coffee. Really really really need it. This is Beckett. Are you coming?"

Oh, it's definitely Beckett. Insane as it sounds—insane as she sounds—it has to be. Anyone else would have typed 'R U coming?' She hates those abbreviations. Is she drunk? She sounds it, but it can't be. She'd never drink while she's on meds, and she must be on powerful meds, given what her body has gone through. MEDS! It's the meds talking! Isn't it? Is there an in meds veritas the way there's an in vino veritas? What's the Latin for 'meds'? Holy shit, he's sounding as crazy as Beckett. He smiles. Of course he is. That's because he's crazy about her. As crazy about her as he has ever been about anyone. He wants to go downstairs and get in the car and drive 120 miles an hour to wherever the cabin is and make her a million cups of coffee and keep her company forever.

But he can't do that, can he? What if the meds have worn off by the time he gets there? Or she's asleep and he wakes her up? Will she even remember having texted him? And then she'll be pissed beyond belief at him and throw him out. What if he calls her? Or texts back? He clamps his hands on his head. He can't screw this up. He's got to think this through. How limited is she now? She spilled the beans and can't pick them up, so her movements are restricted. He could call Lanie. Hell, no. He doesn't want to tip his hand. Think. Ah! Alan Bernstingle! The ER doctor in Los Angeles who was so helpful when he was researching gunshot wounds for one of his Derrick Storm books. It's only 10 o'clock in California, he can call him. Email, that's better. Marked urgent. He quickly outlines Beckett's wounds and the surgery she had, adding that she has always been incredibly fit. He asks what her physical limitations would be after three and half weeks, how powerful the painkillers. Would they cause her to talk (or text) like this?

Bernstingle rocks. He answers almost immediately, explaining that he can't say exactly without seeing the patient and the case notes, but giving a very clear picture of what her state probably is. It's possible that she has over medicated, but not to worry. It will make her super loopy but cause no damage, assuming she's on the standard protocol. Castle thanks him and calls the best liquor store in Los Angeles to order the doctor three bottles of the best Scotch available.

He thinks about what Alan told him. Beckett must be in terrible pain, and unable to do much. Walk a little, that's it. Very slowly recovering. It must be awful for someone as strong and as independent as she. He'd been so hurt and angry that she hadn't called him, but that's gone into the ether now. To be practical, which is hardly his default position, he can't go see her now because all he knows about the cabin is that it's a couple of hours' drive—a lot less if he takes the Ferrari—from the city, and she's in no state to provide directions. He'll call her father in the morning. What he can do now is text her back, assure her that he'll come. That'll give her an out in the morning if she realizes what she'd said while she was meds drunk and changes her mind. She must really be on the good stuff. She should be. She deserves it.

Don't change your mind, Kate. Please, please, please.

She'd sent the second text more than a quarter of an hour ago. Maybe she's asleep now? He swallows hard.

"Hey, Beckett, it's Castle. Leave those beans right where they are! I'll come first thing in the morning and make you coffee. Maybe we can sit outside, unless you have man-eating mosquitoes up there."

He knows he should try to go to bed, but he's so wired it's not possible. Maybe he should eat something healthy. He goes to the kitchen, grabs a blueberry yogurt and a bottle of mango juice, and returns to the office. There's his phone, face up on the deck, its screen filled with her latest text.

"Hey, Castle. I don't know if we have man-eating mosquitoes here. They bite me all the time but I'm a woman! I bet you know that because you saw me naked when my apartment blew up. La la la la la la!"

He drops the mango juice, which splatters all over the floor. He doesn't care. Should he answer or not? He should have a shrink or someone on call to advise him on what to do. He'll eat the yogurt and clean up the juice and then decide by himself. He's licking the spoon when he hears it.

Chirp.

"You're going to pick up the beans I spilled. You'll do a good job cause everyone always said you're a great pick-up artist."

Oh, God. Not much subtext there. He's ashamed to admit it, but he used to be a great pick-up artist. Not any more. It's true. The only person he wants to pick up is Beckett. Pick her up and hang on to her.

Chirp.

"Nighty nighty nighty night I am so sleepy. This is Beckett. Nighty night."

No more texting from him, then. But how's he going to last until 7:30, when he can decently call Jim Beckett? And then it hits him. The first text. She said that she has a secret.

TBC

A/N Oh, for the good old days of S3-S4! Thank you so much for all your enthusiasm for this story.