Jerking awake when a hand gripped his shoulder, Esposito blinked and relaxed his muscles. The tall man who'd woken him quirked a smile. "Doctor Belafsky. I operated on Mr. Doyle."

Javier slid up to sit straighter in his seat. "Hey, doc. Detective Esposito. What's the news on my suspect?"

The doctor stepped back and rubbed his neck to work out the post-surgery stiffness. He had dark, curly hair that was matted a bit with sweat at his forehead. His green eyes looked red-rimmed and tired. He frowned a little at the question. "Well, we removed the bullet."

Pulling a small plastic evidence bag from the back pocket of his scrub pants, the doctor handed it over. "It entered near the side of his chest, traveled upward and hit the inside of the scapula, where it stopped. The scapula is fractured, but will heal fine, as will the bullet wound itself. Luckily for him, it missed his lung. Those injuries, along with the fractured wrist, are going to make that young man very sore on the left side for a while. He'll need physical therapy once the scapula heals. It's the head injury that's worrisome."

"Bad?" Esposito stood and tried to work the kinks out of his back. He'd been concerned about the head wound. Rightly so, it appeared.

"We won't know for sure until Mr. Doyle regains consciousness. There's no sign of swelling or bleeding in the brain, so that's good news. Although, he does have a hairline linear skull fracture and concussion. There was no bone displacement or depression. But, the bad news is that I doubt he will remember much regarding the event of his injuries."

"Well, we can't have everything, doc." Esposito reached out to shake the doctor's hand. "Thanks for letting me know. Where is Doyle now?"

"In recovery. The nurse will come get you when they move him to a room."

Dr. Belafsky nodded once more then headed down the hall toward the elevators. Javier paced around the waiting room to stretch his legs and call Beckett again. He filled her in on what he'd been told, then went off in search of a restroom and vending machines. By the time he returned to the waiting room, a nurse was there to catch him and let him know to which room his suspect had been taken.

He followed her hasty directions up a couple of floors and down a long hallway to room 502. Javier slipped quietly inside and went to stand over Doyle's bed. Kieran was still asleep, or unconscious. His left shoulder was again covered with bandages and the left arm was strapped to his chest by a complicated looking sling with the edge of a blue cast visible. Wires were stuck to his bare chest and the oxygen mask was still in place. A gauze-like wrapping circled his head, holding a thick bandage over the head wound.

Shaking his head, Esposito walked around to the other side of the bed where an ugly blue padded chair rested against the wall by the window. The weary detective dropped down into it and slid down so his head rested on the back. He closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep while he waited.

When he startled awake from a buzzing vibration in his pocket, Javier noticed the room was noticeably darker. A quick look toward the window confirmed that the sun had long since set. The detective took a moment to check the caller ID then answered the call.

"Yo, Becket. Anything new?" He cleared the sleep hoarseness from his voice and twisted from side to side to stretch his back.

"Not much here. We did get confirmation from one of the suspects arrested at the raid that Collins held a vig for Kyle Pierce, and that Collins had been pretty angry when he didn't get what he wanted from Kyle. What about Doyle?"

Turning away from the window toward the bed, Javier froze for a moment as his gaze made contact with a glazed pair of blue eyes. "Hold that thought, Beckett. I think he might be waking up. I'll call you back."

The detective walked closer to the bed and reached over to press the call button. "My name is Detective Esposito. The doctor will be in here shortly."

The young man in the bed let his eyes roam around the room before coming back to meet Javier's. A puff of condensation covered the inside of the oxygen mask at Doyle's muffled question of, "Was I in an accident?"

"Why don't we wait for the doctor and we'll explain what happened, okay?"

Blue eyes blinked as Doyle nodded slowly, clearly confused at his situation. Only a few moments passed before the two men were joined by a nurse and a new doctor, whose name tag announced him as Dr. Morrow.

Javier reached across the bed to shake the doctor's hand and introduce himself. "Detective Esposito, NYPD Homicide."

"Good to meet you, Detective. Let's see how our patient is fairing, shall we?" The doctor smiled at Doyle and explained to the young man what he and the nurse were doing as they went about checking their patient's lung sounds, pulse, blood pressure and pupils. "Still a tad sluggish, but you seem to be doing a lot better, young man. Now, I'm going to ask you some questions, just to see what that concussion might have done."

Doyle nodded slowly, glancing from Dr. Morrow to Esposito. "Was I in an accident?"

The doctor crossed his arms and smiled gently. "Well, of sorts I suppose. You fell off a ladder and whacked your head pretty good, young man."

"Oh. That would explain the pounding headache, then, huh?"

"I would say so. Do you feel nauseous?"

Kieran seemed to think about that for a moment before lifting his right hand and waving it from side to side. "Kinda?"

"Well, if it gets too bad we'll see what we can do about it. Now, first thing first. Can you tell me your name?"

The young man frowned when the information didn't naturally come to him. It took more effort than he would have thought to dredge up a name. "K-Kevin?"

The doctor looked across the bed at Detective Esposito, who shook his head. "Kieran."

Doyle looked up at the detective, squinting a bit at the overhead lighting. "Are you sure it's not Kevin? I feel like...I think it's Kevin."

Crossing his arms, Javier raised his eyebrows. "Not according to your I.D. It's Kieran. Kieran Doyle."

The young man reached up to rub at the bandaging across his brow and frowned. "That...that does sound kinda familiar. Maybe it's a fake I.D.?"

"I'm a detective, kid. I know a fake when I see one."

Dr. Morrow quickly stepped in with another question to test Doyle's orientation. "Can you tell me how old you are, Kieran?"

"Twenty...twenty-seven?"

This time, both doctor and patient turned to Esposito for confirmation. Again, the detective shook his head. "Twenty-two."

"Really?"

"Again, I.D."

Kieran began to rub his forehead in earnest. "I thought...I'm pretty sure I'm older than that."

The doctor chuckled softly. "Well, son, I have to go with Detective Esposito on that one. You certainly look twenty-two. How about telling me who the President of the United States is?"

"O-Obama?"

Blue eyes darted back and forth between the detective and his doctor and Kieran sagged a little in relief that he'd finally managed to give a correct answer.

"Can you tell me what city you're in?"

"New York?" Well, he was two and two so far.

"Okay, Mr. Doyle, now how about telling me what you remember before waking up here in the hospital."

The detective seemed especially interested in this question, making Kieran anxious to come up with the right answer. He didn't know why a Detective would be interested in him, but Kieran was anxious to do anything that would keep him from getting arrested. For what, he wasn't sure. Dr. Morrow apparently sensed his patient's anxiety, because he leaned forward and patted one blanket covered leg gently. "It's not a pass or fail kind of test, son. It's okay if you don't remember. Just think back and tell me what you do remember."

Rubbing at his face under the oxygen mask where the plastic made it itch, Kieran tried to run through his memories. The only problem was, he apparently couldn't trust what he thought he remembered. He had been fairly certain his name was Kevin, but Kieran also seemed familiar. Which was the right memory? He remembered a dingy room with old furniture. He remembered a small, but neat apartment with hardwood floors. Which was real? Or were they both? He remembered walking against a biting wind. A phone call. He remembered a gun in his hand. Then it was a knife.

"I don't-." The pain in Kieran's head climbed to new levels of agony and his stomach churned. How do you lose a huge chunk of your life? "I can't remember. There was...I think there was a hotel room. Old, dingy. I was walking. A phone call, maybe. I don't know."

"It's okay, Mr. Doyle. Try to calm your breathing."

"I feel sick."

Having anticipated it, Dr. Morrow had a small kidney-shaped dish ready when Kieran leaned as far forward as he could, swiped the O2 mask from his face and retched painfully. Not much came up, but the heaving continued until tears began to run from the corners of his eyes at the effort. His stomach finally gave up and Kieran dropped back against the pillow, his face clammy and pale.

"That's enough for now. Try to get some more sleep, Mr. Doyle." Dr. Morrow handed the dish to the nurse to rinse out. "Nurse Wells, let's try some acetaminophen for the headache."

The nurse nodded and headed into the bathroom to rinse out the emesis basin. Dr. Morrow gently worked the oxygen mask off Kieran's face and over his head, switching it out for a nasal cannula. "We'll try this for tonight and see how you do. It'll make it easier for you if you have any more trouble with nausea. We can't give you anything stronger than the acetaminophen for now, I'm afraid. Try to get some rest, but push the call button if you need anything."

The doctor made sure the button was in reach of Doyle's unstrapped hand then waved for Esposito to follow him out into the hall. Once in the hall, the door swinging shut behind them, Javier raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Well, he's oriented to time and place. But, not to person or event." The older man brought his hand up and pinched his bottom lip in thought for a moment. "It's a bit early to tell, but he may be suffering from some sort of psychogenic or dissociative amnesia."

With a defeated sigh, Esposito pinched the bridge of his nose in fatigue. "Great. How long do you think it'll last?"

"There's no way to tell, Detective. It may be due to the concussion or to the trauma of the event itself. It may clear up when the concussion heals, or it may never resolve itself completely. Try not to push him too hard to remember. At least not for a few days. Give him time to heal physically first."

Nodding, frustrated, Javier promised to be patient. As Dr. Morrow walked off down the hall, Esposito pulled out his phone once again to break the bad news to Beckett. After passing on the information, Javier pushed open the door and brushed past the nurse on her way out. He made his way over to the blue chair and once again made himself comfortable. Tired blue eyes tracked his movements.

"You said homicide."

Scooting the chair closer to the bed, Javier drew his brows together in confusion. "What?"

"You said homicide earlier. Was there...did I...did someone die?"

The detective could read the fear in the pale young face of his suspect. "Yes, someone died. Actually, two people. But I don't think you had anything to do with either."

Kieran blew out a shaky breath in relief. "I didn't think...I mean, I can't remember...but I feel like I'm not the kind of person that would hurt someone. But, you're here and I was scared-."

The young man's words trailed off, unable to express clearly his fear at not being able to accurately remember who he was and what had landed him in such pain and uncertainty. "What happened?"

Javier took a moment to consider what to say. He didn't want to plant false memories in Kieran's head. "There was a meeting tonight, with a man we were interested in talking to. When we went into the room, you went out the window. In the process of making a break for it, you were shot and fell from the fire escape ladder."

Plucking at the sheet with his right hand, Kieran avoided his eyes. "Did you shoot me?"

Chuckling softly, Esposito shook his head. "Nah, man. I was ready to beat your skinny ass for running, but I didn't shoot you."

Shooting a glance at the detective, Kieran quirked a grin. "Sorry. What for, I'm not sure. But, sorry anyway."

"Don't worry about it. Try to do like the doctor said and get some sleep." Javier stood and crossed over to the wall by the door, flipping off the overhead lights. The only light in the room now came from a small lamp screwed into the wall near the bed. "That help?"

The dimming of the lights had the pounding in Kieran's skull almost immediately quieting into a dull thump. Still painful, but better. "Yeah, it does. Thanks."

"No problem."

Without another word, the detective settled once more into his chair. Javier watched as Doyle gradually relaxed and lost his fight with sleep. Richard Castle hadn't been far off with his college student comparison. Kieran seemed quiet and polite. Not your usual punk drug dealer. Though, the question about the ID being fake had been odd. Javier made a note to take a good look at the ID he'd pulled from the young man's wallet. On first inspection, it had certainly looked legit. He would run the number through the system when he got back to the 12th, if someone hadn't already done it.

The dimness of the room and the late hour, coupled with an eventful day, had Javier closing his eyes. The only sounds in the room were Doyle's quiet whistling breaths and the faint hiss of the O2. By the time Castle arrived two hours later, both men were asleep.

"Esposito. Javier, wake up."

Blinking open his eyes, Esposito found the writer standing over him holding two travel cups of coffee. The detective climbed to his feet and jiggled his legs to get feeling back into them and reached for the cup Castle held out to him. "Thanks, Castle. What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to spell you so that you can get some sleep before heading into work in the morning."

Taking a sip of the hot coffee, Javier sighed in appreciation. "Man, that's good. You sure you want to stay here all night?"

"Sure, no problem." Richard Castle grabbed the strap hanging over his shoulder with his thumb and smiled. "Brought my laptop. I'll just get some work done on the Nikki Heat novel. I do my best writing at night, anyway."

"If you say so, bro." Esposito had made it clear early on that he'd never read any of Castle's previous novels. "Doyle won't do much but lay there and sleep, hopefully. If he does wake up, ask him questions to see if anything jogs loose. So far, his memory is pretty sketchy. But don't push him too hard."

Castle settled into the vacated blue chair and smirked up at the detective. "Getting soft, Espo?"

"Hell no. But he may know something that will help with the case, and if we push too hard it might turn him against us. We'll get nothing that way."

"Good point." The writer unzipped the case resting on his knees and pulled out the slim laptop. "Anything else I should know."

Heading for the door, Javier gestured to the bedside table. "Yeah, if the pain gets bad and he feels like puking, hand him that dish."

"Great. Brings back memories of Alexis when she ate too much ice-cream as a kid."

"Are you sure that wasn't you, Castle?" Javier shot the writer a smirk of his own.

"Touché, Detective. Get out of here and go home, so I can start writing."

Esposito laughed quietly as he slipped from the room, leaving the writer to get settled in for his night of guard duty. Although Beckett hadn't been as convinced as Esposito that Blaine was dirty, she trusted her partner. If Espo's instincts said the kid needed protection, then protection he would have. Even if it was just Castle.

Laptop open and booting up, Castle used the time to observe the sleeping suspect. Doyle's face was pasty white in the meager light from the bedside lamp. Dark bruising was starting to spread out from under the gauze over the head wound and the left cheek showed signs of swelling. Too-long auburn bangs hung down, shadowing his closed eyelids. Castle just couldn't picture him as a cold-blooded drug dealer.

The young man could have all the answers they were looking for, but the writer suspected that wouldn't prove the case. Esposito was probably right in that there was something off about what had gone down in that alley, but Castle doubted it had anything to do with Heather's murder.

Pushing the case to the back of his mind, Castle opened the folder containing his Nikki Heat novel and quickly scrolled to his newest chapter. He took a moment to read over what he'd already written to get himself back into the right mindset. Satisfied, the writer smirked and started typing. Beckett was going to have kittens when she finally got a chance to read this particular chapter.

For several hours Castle typed on uninterrupted, the faint light from the laptop casting a bluish tint on the writer's face. He hadn't even paused when the nurse came in twice to check the patient's vital signs without disturbing either patient or writer. When the overhead lights flicked on in the wee hours of the morning, Castle started and the laptop nearly slid from his grasp. A small ripple of fear ran up his spine as the writer recognized the man standing in the doorway. Officer Blaine looked every bit as disconcerted as Castle felt. Clearing his throat nervously, Rick stood and rested the laptop on the chair.

"What brings you here this time of the night, Officer Blaine?"

The officer blinked owlishly for a moment, then took a couple of hesitant steps into the room and gestured at the sleeping man in the bed. "I uh, felt kind of bad that I hadn't been able to keep Collins from shooting him. Thought I'd drop by and see how the kid's doing."

Castle stepped closer to the hospital bed and hovered protectively over Doyle. "The doctor seems to think he'll be fine. He's got some memory issues, apparently, but nothing serious."

"Memory issues?" Blaine's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Yeah, he doesn't seem to remember who he is or what happened in the alley." The writer tread carefully, here. Although the officer hadn't said or done anything threatening, Castle felt that Esposito's instincts had been right.

Sure enough, Blaine's posture relaxed minutely and the officer smiled grimly. "Well, I guess I'll head home then. Glad he's gonna be okay. Have a good night, Castle."

"You, too, Blaine."

The writer stood rooted to the floor until the door shut behind the departing officer, then he let out a nervous sigh. Castle nearly jumped out of his skin when Doyle's soft voice broke the silence. "I think he was lying."

Hand braced on the bed rail, Castle tried to calm his thumping heart. Doyle stared back at him, face pale and pinched with pain. The writer wondered if the young man's statement had been triggered by a memory. "What makes you says that?"

The patient shrugged his good shoulder and shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know. Just a feeling, I guess. Who are you?"

Castle smiled and reached out to shake Doyle's hand gently, introducing himself. "Richard Castle. I thought I'd stay with you and give Det. Esposito a chance to get a good night's sleep."

"Castle?" The young man's brow wrinkled as Doyle puzzled through a memory. "The writer?"

Always pleased when someone recognized the name, Castle beamed. "That's me. Have you read any of my books?"

Doyle brought his right hand up to press his palm against the bridge of his nose, squinting against the block in his memories. He remembered the dingy room. A lumpy bed. A hardback book taking his mind away from something troubling. The ending...

"Derrick Storm." Doyle dropped his hand and glared at Castle. "You killed him. What for?"

"Of all the things for you to remember." Castle laughed softy and rested his hip against the bed. "Yeah, sorry about that. If it makes you feel any better, I'm deep into a new novel."

Kieran's breath hitched and he grabbed the bed rail with a trembling hand, sweat starting to bead on his upper lip beneath the nasal cannula. He swallowed convulsively, shooting Castle a look of wordless pleading. Recognizing the signs, the writer hurried around to the bedside table to grab the emesis basin. Castle held it for Doyle as the young man retched from the piercing agony behind his eyes.

Once Kieran finished and slumped back against the pillow, Castle went to the restroom to rinse out the dish. He wet a wash cloth with cool water and wrung it out. The writer put the basin back on the bedside table, hoping it wouldn't be needed again. Castle gently wiped the sweat from Kieran's face with the wash cloth then helped the young man sip some water to rinse his mouth.

"Okay now?"

Doyle was clearly fading, but he offered the writer a wobbly smile of thanks. "Yeah, I think so. Can you turn the light back off? It helps."

"Sure." Castle flipped off the overhead light then went back to the blue chair. He picked up the laptop, sat down and swiped his finger over the pad to bring the computer back to life. He stared at the puzzling man in the bed a few moments then shook his head to clear his thoughts. He re-read the last sentence and resumed typing to pick up where he'd left off. Maybe he'd use Doyle in another novel.

The author got in another hour or so of writing before Doyle once again stirred into wakefulness. Smiling when vibrant blue eyes blinked open and turned his way, Castle saved his file and leaned down to rest the laptop on the floor. He stood with a groan, muscles having stiffened at the prolonged immobility, and walked over to stand by the bed.

"Feeling any better?"

Kieran licked dry lips and took stock. He was sore as hell, confused beyond measure and had a throbbing headache. But the piercing agony from before was gone. "Yeah. At least I don't feel like someone's stabbing me in the head anymore."

Castle laughed quietly in understanding. "I'm sure it's all relative at this point. So do you remember anything from the shooting?"

As eager to remember the details as everyone else seemed to be, Kieran lifted his right hand to press his fingers against his brow. Literally pushing against the pain, figuratively pressing against the block in his memories. Again he remembered walking in the biting wind. He recalled stopping to take a phone call. He could get no further than that, so he tried back-tracking instead. There was the dingy hotel room he'd remembered before. A sense of anxiety about...the meeting Esposito had mentioned. He pushed harder, trying to think of the name of the hotel. A shadow of the previous pain crept forward and Kieran quickly backed down, dropping his hand to the bed.

"All I remember is that I walked to that meeting. I was worried about going there. I think I live in an SRO. I don't even know what that means, but that's the word that comes to mind."

With a small nod, Castle smiled. They could work with that and maybe find where Kieran had been living. His room could hold answers to some of the puzzling questions. "I know you don't remember the events leading up to the shooting, but let's try something that might be a bit easier. Where did you grow up?"

Without even thinking, Kieran answered, "The Bronx." Those piercing blue eyes blinked in astonishment for a moment. "Wow, I think that actually is a memory."

Pleased, Castle shifted his weight to once again rest his hip against the bed rail. "Do you remember your parents? Siblings?"

The writer watched as Kieran closed his eyes and concentrated. The young man blinked them back open and smiled softly. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember. At least, I have flashes of memories of them. And sisters. Two? Older. Megan and...Fiona."

"What about your parents? What are their names?"

Kieran shook his head. "I can't remember."

Castle huffed a sigh in thought. "In those flashes of memory, are you speaking to them? What names are you calling them?"

Quirking an ironic smile, Kieran shrugged his right shoulder. "Ma and Da."

"Boy you are Irish, aren't you?" Castle chuckled softly at the admission. "I guess it makes sense. Not many kids call their parents by their first names. What about schooling? Where did you go to school?"

Shifting slightly to ease the growing discomfort in his left shoulder, Kieran stared at the ceiling in thought. "Nuns. It was...it was a Catholic school. I don't know the name."

"What did the uniform look like?" Now they were getting somewhere. Surely it wouldn't be too hard to run Kieran's name by the area Catholic schools to see if they found a match.

Smiling a bit in irony at how easy it was to pull up that memory, Keiran replied, "Navy blue slacks, white shirt...maroon sweater. There was a patch, but I can't remember what it looked like."

"That's good, Kieran. At least it's a place for us to start. Maybe if we found a familiar place, you might remember other things more easily."

"Maybe." The young man's vivid blue eyes blinked slowly, sleep once more trying to drag him away.

Shifting his weight back onto both feet, Castle smiled at the patient. "Go back to sleep and don't let it worry you. We're making progress."

Eyes drifting closed against his will, the young man held out long enough to impart a warning to Castle. "If that guy comes back. Call Detective Esposito. I gotta...gotta bad vibe there. Dangerous."

Watching Kieran sleep for a moment, Castle shivered slightly. The fact that a young man who couldn't remember what had landed him in the hospital somehow felt that Blaine was wrong, made the dark hospital room suddenly feel creepy.

Shaking off his morbid thoughts, Castle walked over to pick up his laptop and settle into the vinyl chair once more. Hopefully it would only be a few more hours until someone came to take over for him. He had managed to get a lot written, but his eyes were starting to feel gritty with fatigue.

His thoughts drifted once more from Nikki Heat to Kieran Doyle. His presence at the drug distribution meeting clearly meant the young man was into some sort of criminal activity. But he seemed honest and straightforward from the little interaction Castle had managed with him. And he was concerned enough for the writer's safety to warn him about Blaine.

Castle was still puzzling over the enigma as he gradually lost the fight with the late hour and nodded off, fingers still loosely resting on the laptop keyboard.