AN: Thank you to all of you who are jumping into this madness with me ;), and your lovely comments! Big squishy thanks to Dia for so kindly harassing me to write this, but also helping to fix the odds and ends! :)
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He won't leave her side.
They try to pry him away. Soothing words, at first, then strict orders in loud, unfamiliar voices when he won't budge. He doesn't care, shakes them off when they try to get to her. He elbows a guy in the stomach when he jerks around, feels a sick satisfaction at the dull impact, the grunt of suppressed pain.
He can't leave her.
He'd promised to protect her.
He's the one who lifts her off the chair, eventually. Once the ropes are loosened, her body crumbling like a marionette with the strings cut, he slides one arm beneath her knees, curls the other around her shoulder blades. His arms struggle with her once-familiar weight when he cradles her to his chest, and he can't quite understand why she's not holding on, why the ladder of her rib cage feels wrong beneath his fingertips; why she smells of harsh antiseptic instead of the elusive cherry scent he'd wanted to spend a lifetime chasing.
He's the one who carries her out of this godforsaken hellhole, through the surreal black honor guard lined at his right and left, and the eyes filled with pity. He's the one to lay her down onto a gurney, and hold her cold hand as they race across town in an ambulance even though there's no rush to get to any hospital.
This can't be real. Can't be real. Can't be real. It's a sound reel in his head, a mantra that clicks over and over and over, a broken record, crackly, tinny, can't be real, can't be real, useless helpless desperate words that clash with the cold rubber of her hand in his, the lack of the warm, thriving throb of her pulse beneath the tender skin on her wrist, the absolute stillness of the form stretched along the blue vinyl.
He walks with his wife as she's wheeled along a stark, echoing corridor, his hand gripping hers, his mind blank. It's like he's underwater, muffled sounds and pressure crushing his skull, his legs so heavy, his world surreal in ice-cold-blue.
He startles at a bolt of warmth that lances through his hand; his heart jolts, hurtling itself against his ribs, his eyes flying open in a nauseating rush of hope as he stares down at his wife but her eyes, her beautiful, expressive eyes remain closed, her lips tinted blue, her torso devoid of breath. He chokes on the nausea, his breath coming in fits and starts because it can't be real, she can't be dead, she can't—
He stares at the hand covering his where he's gripping Kate's - Lanie's hand, Lanie's face that appears before him, her mouth moving with words he can't seem to understand beneath the deafening roar in his ears.
"…let go…"
No no no no no -
"Castle, you need to let her go."
He can't. How could he-? He gasps for air, doesn't know if he spoke or cried, the ache in his chest tearing him apart, brutal in its destruction, unstoppable.
"I'll watch over her for you. I promise. I'll watch over her."
She squeezes his hand with a strength that startles him; his eyes fly to hers, find a mirror of his pain in Lanie's watery gaze, in the quiver of her bottom lip, in the façade of strength that will crumble at any moment.
He nods.
He sits on the cold metal bench outside the swing doors of the morgue, stares vacantly at the spot where Lanie disappeared with Kate. The silence is stark, all-encompassing. He sits and waits, doesn't know how long, doesn't know what he's waiting for.
She's with Lanie now. Lanie will watch over her.
Except he knows Kate won't need it.
She's dead.
His wife is dead.
And it is all his fault.