A/N: Still overwhelmed by your response to this tale. Thank you!

So, that box, huh? Some people mentioned they were interested in the box. Okay, most people yelled: 'What the heck is in that box?'

Since you asked...

Chapter 3 – Swimming

Castle sits and debates and sits and debates, staring at the box resting on the table in front of him until he could swear it is whispering to him, like something out of a Stephen King novel.

His head is still throbbing, the Advil burning a little as they dissolve at the bottom of his gullet. He takes another swig of cold water and the pain in his head eases slightly.

He's in Kate's apartment late at night, but this just isn't how he envisioned this scene playing out when they finally spent some time alone together at his place or hers – him out on the sofa like some errant boyfriend sent to the dog house and her sleeping alone in her bedroom just the other side of the wall.

Kate might be just feet away, but Castle has never felt so alone.

He's getting cold now. Her heating has clicked off and he's still sitting shirtless on the edge of the sofa he just turned into a bed for the night. Being alone with his thoughts is actually the last thing he needs right now. While Kate was around, fussing more than he's ever seen her fuss before, he was distracted. Off-kilter constantly with the curve balls she kept throwing at him about wanting him to see the real her, opening up, time machines and regrets over their past, but distracted nonetheless by the sights and sounds of her moving around her home, feeding him, caring for him and keeping them going.

Now there is nothing but silence, broken occasionally by the unfamiliar sounds of her building flexing and breathing at night. Silence and the looming outline of her various artworks hanging on nearby walls that are sure to give him nightmares if he ever succumbs to sleep. Fear, worry, regret and dread nag at his tender, dehydrated brain, and he wants to curl up in a dark hole somewhere and forget it all.

So he stands shakily, bracing himself on the arm of the sofa, and he unbuckles his belt, manages to step out of his pants without falling sideways and cracking his skull on the corner of an end table. He even succeeds in folding them in a manner of speaking, and places them carefully on the armchair where he left his shirt, socks laid out alongside, until he is naked save for his boxer shorts.

Okay, so standing naked in Kate Beckett's living room (except for his underwear) is not the fun experience he always hoped or expected it to be. Not in his wildest dreams did he imagine them sleeping apart the next time he spent a night under her roof, after the one night he stayed with her before her old apartment was blown up several years ago.

They have progressed a ton since then – or at least he thought they had. His mind is reeling from the alcohol and his broken heart and both drag him back in time to revisit the missteps they have both made along the way.

He is…was in love with her. Told her so too, and maybe his timing was shitty. But at least he said it and was proud of himself for doing so; of the man he'd become by then, who would think only of her in that split second between his brain registering and comprehending the flash of light he saw between the headstones, and the nanosecond it took to get his muscles to react, propelling him forward to throw himself in front of her. He wasn't fast enough, but then only Superman is faster than a speeding bullet, so they say. At least he tried.

He has thought back to that moment so many times in the intervening months – imagined scenarios where he was standing closer, took the hit for her, played out the scene again, only this time she didn't fade or pass out before she understood what he had just told her. No, in his version she heard him clearly as he begged her not to go, not to leave him behind.

"Kate, shhh. Kate, please. Stay with me, Kate. Don't leave me, please. Stay with me, okay? Kate, I love you. I love you, Kate."

He can still feel the weight of her under his hands as he cradled her, can summon the warmth of her blood as it seeped between his fingers, can feel the tug of Esposito's firm grip on his shoulder as he was pulled off of her, hauled away so that she could be helped by people far better qualified than him; a mere writer with only the strength of his will to keep her heart beating, because he loved her and he needed her in his life and so she just had to go on living.

But in that moment, unskilled as he was, he felt like the only one who could give her help, the only one who cared enough about her to force the life back into her body. Misguided he may have been, but he believed it with all his heart.

She was his everything in those terrible, awful, terrifying seconds, and then she was gone.

Even his own daughter and mother meant less to him in that couple of minutes, and his own life meant nothing to him at all in comparison to the life of this woman who didn't even know how deeply he felt for her. And that is why the revelation of her lie today cut him so deeply. He wanted to scream:

"I was ready to lay down my life for you, to deprive my own family of a father and a son just so that you could go on living, and you were what? Too scared to tell me that you heard, but that you didn't love me back? That you cared, because I can see that you care, but that love was more than you would ever be able to feel for me?"

His blood boils and his head pounds again, as anger and these unvoiced words of rage race around his brain.

Still the box sits there, taunting him with its outward prettiness. The irony, that in some respects this beguiling box isn't unlike Kate Beckett herself – outward beauty, closed dark heart, as she seems to him in his lowest moments - is not lost on him, even in his less than stellar mental state tonight.

He switches off the lamp on the end table, and lies down beneath the pile of blankets. His cell phone alarm is set for seven. Assuming she doesn't get a call in the middle of the night, Castle can be dressed and out of here, doing a celibate version of the walk of shame by seven-thirty at the latest, and then it will all be over.

Kate sits up in bed, the lamp beside her casting a warm glow onto the white duvet and navy comforter folded across the bottom of the bed. A book sits unopened in her lap, since all she can do is think and worry and think some more.

He's out there in her living room - the man she feels the most for in all the world - and yet he seems unreachable; as unreachable as if he were physically halfway around the world.

She's proud of herself for going after him tonight, dragging him back here and taking care of him, as much as he would allow. But still shame sits in her chest like a stone at the reason she had to do these things in the first place – she lied, and then she lied some more, and what the hell was she thinking when she did any of that?

The moment of impact is a blur to her – the heat of that day, the words she had toiled and worried over, how best to honor her Captain and mentor in front of his family and colleagues. That was her immediate preoccupation when the single life-altering shot was fired.

The relief of having her partner standing by her side throughout was huge after their fight; when she threw him out of her apartment and told him it was over between them.

She has wished so many times that both of them had acted differently that night. That she'd been honest, that he'd pushed her even more than he did, asked her what she meant when she said: "You know what we are, Castle? We are over!"

She told him that he didn't know her, when no one else has ever come closer to knowing her better than he has. The truth is that no one else ever cared enough to put in the time and effort that he has, to chip away at her defenses and try to figure out who she really was. Only him.

'Too little, too late, Kate.' These are the words that keep running around her noisy brain tonight as she sits up in bed wondering what he's doing out there all by himself. Has he opened the box, is he sleeping, is he wandering around her apartment touching things? Any and all of the above are a possibility – and the suspense is killing her.

Castle lies on his back staring up at the ceiling, but it spins and he feels nauseous again. He places one foot on the floor and the movement eases a little, but still sleep eludes him. Only anger is sustaining him now, anger and hurt, and he hates this toxic combination more than anything. He is a forgiving man, that is his nature. But how to forgive and not lose yourself, lose your own self-respect and the respect of those around you when you do so again and again?

He wants this limbo to be over, one way or another. His heart aches as much as his fragile head, and as he turns slowly onto his side, eyes closed, he tries to force everything that is bad away to some distant corner of her living room hoping that oblivion will come.

Nothing is working tonight.

He counts sheep but they bleat at him and run away, then shot glasses lined up on an imaginary bar – only this dumb idea makes his stomach roil and his mouth begin to water. He tries writing dialogue in his head: the dullest conversation he can dream up for Nikki and Rook to have – a fight over whose turn it is to order groceries. But even rowing about a shopping list, Nikki Heat gets him hot and bothered. So he deletes this scenario before he can confuse his feelings for his fictional creation with those he's trying to deny for the real, live woman sleeping on the other side of the wall.

He wonders if she is in fact sleeping. When he opens his eyes he sees a thin line of light seeping from underneath her bedroom door. His heart races.

Five minutes later and he has kicked the blanket off his legs – feeling too warm and too surrounded by scents that remind him of her; of how she thrills him when she comes near, touches his arm, brushes her knuckles against his when they walk side-by-side, how she permits him to help her into her coat and ease her soft, fragrant tumble of curls out from beneath the prison of her collar, of how she smiles in that special way, radiating a magic that could light up a room, though her smile is reserved only for him.

He wanted so much more with her than the meager flirtation and chaste touches they have allowed themselves up until now. He is a man and she is a grown woman, and they both have needs and she's clearly a sexual being and—

Before his anger and shame can surface again to cloud his thinking, a point of clarity pierces the darkness – he wasn't alone in his celibacy, hasn't been alone for quite some time. She is a beautiful, attractive, desirable woman in her prime and yet…and yet…

If she wasn't waiting for him, then what?

He sits up quickly, forces his body to ignore the protest his brain makes at this sudden tilt to its inner equilibrium. Then he wraps the blanket around his shoulders to keep him warm, snaps on the lamp on the end table and reaches for the box before he can stop himself. He promised her he'd at least take a look, if not give her a second chance. What more harm can looking do? If he's lucky he'll learn something. If not, he's no further down on the deal.

The lid comes off easily and he sets it aside on the floor. His knee is shaking, jumping up and down like a jackhammer as he sits poised in front of the coffee table holding his breath, before sliding the box closer. He peers over the edge. There are small piles of things inside, neatly arranged. There's also a smaller box within the main box, and it is to this that he is drawn first.

He lifts it out. Like its surrogate parent, it too is decorated on the outside – this time with multicolored butterflies. It is lightweight, feels almost as if it could be filled with air, weighing nothing at all. He eases off the tight fitting cardboard lid. Inside, looking up at him, is a picture of them – him and Kate. Her hair is much shorter, not as short as when they first met, but feathered around her collar, almost brushing her shoulders the way it was once she began to grow it out in their second year of working together, and she's smiling…at him.

He guesses that it's fall or wintertime from the slash-neck sweater she's wearing: a bright red color that highlights her cheekbones and shows just how pale her skin can look without the benefit of sunshine. He looks then at his own face – younger, fewer lines, his jaw unshaven, hair flopping slightly over his forehead. He's wearing a light grey shirt and, unlike Kate, he is looking directly at the camera.

He thinks he remembers the day it was taken – they caught a case in Midtown: a model found dead in a fountain. Her name was Jemma or Jenna, something like that, and at first it looked as if she was simply the victim of the cutthroat industry she had chosen. However, the sad truth was that she died at the hands of a possessive, jealous husband who thought she was cheating on him and was on the verge of leaving. He met Alexis' former babysitter during that case, he remembers with a shiver of disgust, realizing how low he almost stooped when she gave him her number and he briefly considered dating the girl.

Kate had been upset with him throughout the case over an article that has appeared in a magazine lauding his next book – Heat Wave. When it came down to it, Kate finally revealed that since Nikki was based on her she felt she had the right to read the book before it was published if some journalist had been given a copy to review ahead of time. He remembers feeling a sense of pride and pleasure that reading his work meant so much to her.

This photo was taken immediately after a courier had arrived at the Precinct to hand-deliver an early copy of Heat Wave to Kate. That's why she was smiling at him, while he, like the arrogant ass he was back then, had eyes only for the camera.

He flips this photograph to the bottom of the small pile and continues looking through the rest of them. Some are group shots and some might even have been snapped by CSU at the odd crime scene, since they have been taken outdoors and at a distance. Kate's hair changes dramatically over time and he is reminded how she has blossomed into the beautiful, confident, much happier woman she is today. Save for the obvious changes in all of them over the years, the one thing the photographs Kate has chosen to keep all have in common, surprisingly, is him.

Either with Kate, or Kate and the boys, a few of the more heartbreaking ones even include Roy Montgomery, standing amongst them beaming like the proud father figure he was. But happy and relaxed, or more formal and posed, goofy or photo bombed, every single one of these picture includes Richard Castle.

His cheeks are warm and his heart feels tight when he sees the last one. He has no doubts about when this was taken. A couple of months ago they investigated a case involving victims left out in the open, all of them posed as Grimm's fairytale characters – Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty. They went out for drinks once they closed it – the whole gang – to the Old Haunt; him feeling proud as punch since he figured out a small detail involving the tying of a bow that led to the capture of the perp.

Anyway, he got a little tipsy and he and Kate had been flirting, he remembers, largely ignoring Lanie and Espo, which was always a dangerous thing to do. He had leaned over Kate's shoulder at one point, resting his chin near her ear and whispered that he thought she'd make the sexiest Rapunzel, no costume required, just naked, with only her hair to cover her modesty. "I'd climb up that tower and recue you myself, Beckett," he had breathed against her flushed cheek, and it was at this precise moment that Lanie had snapped a picture of the two of them on her phone. He had no idea that Kate or anyone else even had a copy.

They look so happy. But the most startling thing is that they look like a real couple. She hadn't rebuffed him when he'd whispered in her ear, had merely laughed and blushed and told him she didn't need a knight in shining armor, but if he was offering…and then she'd left the tease hanging in the air to go and get another round of drinks.

He stares at the photograph for a long time and then he goes to shuffle it further into the pack, but there is another print stuck to the back of it, the gloss finish holding the two together. He peels them apart and discovers yet another photograph taken on the same night. Mostly it features the three boys. Ryan had put some raucous song on the bar's old jukebox and they had linked arms, singing along drunkenly together. But in the corner of the candid shot, clearly taken by Lanie once again, is Kate. She's standing smiling, a glass of wine cradled against her chest, and from the angle of her gaze, it's clear that she had eyes only for him. Something he's too afraid to call 'love' is painted all over her face; in every curve and light and line and happy flush; it's there for the world to see.

He flips the photograph over because it's almost too painful to look at, and that's when he discovers the reason the two pictures were stuck together. There are a few words written in black Sharpie, neatly printed on the back. The message reads:

Kate Beckett, what the heck are you waiting for?

The handwriting is Lanie's. He'd recognize it from any of dozens of autopsy reports he's been privy to over the years. He feels a flood of warmth that Kate's best friend should have encouraged her like this. But then this photograph was taken a couple of months ago and nothing much had changed between them since. Kate clearly ignored her friend's advice, there's no getting past that truth.

Castle sighs, puts the photographs back in their box and then he lifts them out again, impulsively moving the 'Rapunzel' shot to the top, and he lays the open box on the sofa beside him so he can glance at it now and again while he works his way through the rest of the contents.

He finds a couple of magazine articles written about him, or about him and Kate as the real Nikki Heat, stunned again that she would hoard this stuff. There are a few tidbits of gossip she's cut out of Page 6 too, some of them speculating that the writer and his lady detective muse were dating. He thought she hated all that stuff. That's she's allowing him to see that she kept these mementos really is a glimpse at the real Kate Beckett, just as she promised.

In the bottom of the box is a curious collection of matchbooks and restaurant cards from places they've dined together over the years. He once asked her why she lifted these promotional items and she told him she just liked the designs. Now he's not so sure. He finds a folded up napkin from Remy's and when he unwraps it, there, in his own hand, is a well thought out breakdown of a theory he was expounding for one of their more unusual cases set in the world of steam punk. He had doodled around the rational argument he was making and then he remembers Kate had asked him to sign the steam punk-themed drawing, teasing that it might be worth something in the future.

"She kept this too?" he says quietly to himself, looking furtively towards her bedroom door, which is now in darkness, when he hears the rough rasp of his own voice in the silence of her living room.

None of this is really making any sense.

Below the magazine articles, on the floor of the box, is a black Moleskin notebook; the signature stretchy black band of elastic holding the pages closed. He turns it over in his hands, taps the cover with his nails and then bounces the notebook off his chin. It looks private, whatever is in here. People don't use notebooks like these for insignificant things. They use them to write down their thoughts, their fears, their deepest anxieties, hopes, dreams and—

Castle quickly puts the notebook back in the box and presses himself against the back of the couch, as far away as he can get without physically moving. He pulls the blanket tighter around his body and lets both his knees bounce uncontrolled. He stares at the box, willing his curiosity away. Then he hears Kate speaking to him earlier tonight:

"I don't want to hide anything from you anymore. I'm tired of hiding who I am…from you at least."

He's a writer, he digs, he researches, he gets a nose for a good story and he can't seem to let go. That curiosity has nearly cost him his friendship with Kate a couple of times over the years. But now is different – this time she's asking him to look, to get to know her.

"…we all keep the ugly stuff hidden away, don't we?" she had told him, worried that he would like her less if he knew.

He knows she lied to him, and yet still he is here with an ache in his heart because she's in there – inside of him - for better or worse, part of her is embedded within him.

He reaches for the notebook again before he can change his mind.

When he snaps off the elastic and opens the front cover, two small pieces of paper flutter out and fall to the floor. As he stoops to pick them up he recognizes them instantly. They are the ticket stubs from the night Kate took him to see Forbidden Planet at the Angelica. He had lied to her that night – just a little white lie, but a lie nonetheless – pretended that he had never seen the movie so that she would persuade him to go with her, and it had worked. That night had felt more like a date than any other time they had gone out together, Josh or no Josh, and she had kept these. All this time she had saved both their theater ticket stubs. That must mean something.

He puts them carefully back in the box with the matchbooks and beer mats and napkin, intending to slot them back into the notebook later. Then he opens the first page that has anything written on it. Her handwriting is as familiar to him as his own; only this version looks shakier, written by a weaker hand. He traces the date in the top right hand corner of the page with his fingertip before he realizes that he is about to begin reading some kind of diary.

His pulse begins to race with the thrill of the chase – running down a story, getting such an intimate glimpse into her mind, her psyche – until he spots that the date is two weeks after her surgery, a period in their history that has remained a closed mystery to him up until now, and suddenly he doesn't know whether to begin reading or not; to shut the book right now and walk away. All he knows is that he is scared – for her, for him and of what he'll find out.

But after a short period of soul searching, his innate nature begins to take over again - his writer's curiosity - and so, with her permission, he takes a deep breath and begins to read.

'I've been told this might help - writing my feelings down. The way I feel today, I can't believe anything will help. Even holding this pen hurts. But my dad bought me this notebook and he looks so worried, so I promised him I'd try.

Like most Twelve Steppers he carries on by believing in a higher power. I used to believe in my own power. Now I can barely go to the bathroom unaided. I hate myself…this weakness, the broken body I've been left with.

I miss Castle'

The first entry ends there, ink tailing off on the incomplete 'e' of his surname, no period to punctuate that brief thought; as if she simply ran out of steam.

Castle pauses, bites his lip and then he takes another breath and turns the page. The next entry is dated a couple of days later.

'The mailman came today. Nothing again. The temporary forwarding is in place, so if he wrote me at home… I promised I'd call him. Hardly his fault he hasn't been in touch. I guess I just hoped he would push like he always did. God this hurts. Why does everything have to hurt?

I walked from the bedroom to the front door unaided today. Dad helped me out onto the porch. The sun was too hot. Had to go back inside after ten minutes. I slept until five and then was up half the night reading. I really miss sleep.'

Castle is even more pained by this entry – she wanted him to push his way back in and he, like an idiot, stood on the sidelines waiting for her. He's never done that before, so why the hell did he think it was a good idea back then?

He almost doesn't want to read on, but he forces himself.

'It's been three weeks. My scars are healing better and I can more of less sit still for twenty minutes without crying with the pain. I finished another book today. Can't remember what it was about – just words on a page to pass the time. I've asked dad to bring me some of his the next time he goes back to the city. Still nothing.

I turned my cell phone on today for the first time. So many kind messages - most of them from Lanie. I feel bad for not answering them, but I can't deal with people's sympathy right now. I'm still too angry. He'd know what to say. Always just the right words. So why can't I just pick up the phone? Sometimes I wonder if he's forgotten all about me, moved on already. I wouldn't blame him. I'm such a coward.'

Castle can feel her frustration with herself leaping off the page and he wants to shake this wounded, recovering Kate and then hold her in his arms and comfort her in a way he never got a chance to when all of this was happening for real. It's making him angry at himself and at her that they couldn't just bridge the stupid gap between them and reach out, admit their feelings and confess their need to see one another.

When he thinks about it rationally, they're not much further forward in that respect even now.

He turns a few pages, then a few more - like jumping ahead in a book to find out what happens - and then he settles on a date just over halfway through the twelve weeks she was gone. This entry is much longer and her handwriting is more steady and flowing too.

'I ran a mile today! Only had to stop twice. Breathless. And now I can barely move. My body is so weak. I know I've lost weight, since even my running shoes feel loose, but I'm too scared to look in the mirror. I've been forcing myself to eat now dad is gone. Deliveries come weekly from the nearest town. Apart from that, I am completely alone, which is good on my good days and lonely the rest of the time.

I reread Heat Wave for the third time. If Castle were here with me, I think I'd beg him to read me what he's writing lately just to hear the sound of his voice. He'd probably tease me for asking, but I don't care. I know his words would make me feel better. I hope he's still writing. He's in my dreams a lot. I'm not sure what that means. That I miss him or that I'm saying goodbye, letting go. I don't want to let go—'

What looks like a watermark caused by the splash of a fallen teardrop mars the end of the last sentence, rippling the paper, and then the entry continues.

'I got a letter from the department yesterday – mandated psychiatric counseling whenever I'm ready to start. The thought of the city scares me. I don't think I've ever confessed to being scared of anything before. Sometimes I fear my old life is over, that I won't be able to go back there anymore. Right now I don't even care who did this to me. I just want my strength back and to stop feeling so angry and exhausted all the time.

I wrote him a letter. No way I can send it. I don't think he'll even want to see me after all this time and silence. He's a patient man. I never would have suspected that when we first met. But he deserves so much more than this. So why can't I stop thinking about him? I feel so sad some days. All those times I could have told him how I felt and I wasted every one of them. And why? Because I was scared? Didn't feel ready? Kate you sound like a pathetic quitter. My mom would never have put up with me moping like this. I miss her so much. She's in every corner of this house, every old book, kitchen utensil and stick of furniture. Some nights I think I can hear her singing to me. Maybe it's just the pain meds, I don't know. But I like to believe that it's her.

I'm going to call Lanie. Tomorrow I'll call her and check how things lie. She'll tell me the truth. Right now I just need to sleep.'

Castle has no idea if she called Lanie or not until he turns the page and the next entry begins:

'I couldn't do it. I don't think I'm going to like what I'll hear. I'll write to her instead, explain, and hopefully she can forgive me.

My dad is coming up to stay this weekend. We're going fishing by the lake. I asked him to bring my old Walkman and a couple of audiobooks he picked up in a thrift store. Castle recorded some of his early novels on cassette. I need to hear his voice again. Dad doesn't understand why I don't just pick up the phone and call him. I think even he thinks I'm spineless now. I made him promise he wouldn't call Castle either. I couldn't bear it if he found out. I don't think I could look him in the eye.

Tomorrow will be better. I hope tomorrow will be better.'

Castle puts the notebook down on the coffee table after he stares at the words she has crossed out - tomorrow will be better - hating her loss of optimism. He needs to take a break. The things he's read so far are heartbreaking – this strong, independent woman reduced to a shell of the Kate he knows.

So much wasted time. That is all he can think when he gets up and finds himself pacing her living room. He knew she was badly hurt, knew she needed time to heal, but he had no idea how psychologically fragile, damaged, and isolated she became in that time away from the city. Reading her journal it almost seems as if her decision to go to her dad's cabin may be have been a mistake. But if that was a mistake, the even bigger mistake was the one perpetrated by him – standing back, nursing his wounded pride, waiting for a call he fairly quickly realized wasn't going to come.

So he told her he loved her and then he expected her to do what exactly? Get up off her sick bed, dump her boyfriend and coming running after him declaring that she loved him too? When he thinks about it now that is exactly what he hoped would happen – naïve, selfish, self-absorbed, pathetic, needy individual that he was. And when it didn't happen exactly as he hoped, he lost himself in a sea of depression that found him peering down the neck of a bottle several nights a week.

As soon as he realizes this, he goes back to the sofa and sits down heavily, needing to read more of her story in the hope that her mind will begin to heal too, that things will begin to get better for her. He selects a random page.

'I had a dream last night where I was swimming. All the pain was gone, the water was warm and you were there with me.'

He freezes. This is the first time he has read an entry that seems to be addressed directly to another person. When he dares to look down again, air caught in his lungs for a second too long, her words go on, and his eyes begin to burn, the words swilling around on the page in pools of his own tears.

'Castle, we were swimming! My dreams are more surreal than ever. I have no idea if that is a good sign or a bad one. We both had tails like mermaids or mermen in the swimming dream. Is that the word? You would know and you probably have an anecdote to share too.

I walked down to the lake today, skipped stones until my arm hurt. You'd like it here. You probably have a special outfit or two hanging in your closet for a place just like this - something in plaid or calfskin or burlap.

You made me laugh in my dream. My pillow was wet when I woke up. I don't know what that means. I hope I didn't laugh so hard that I cried. Thank God my dad isn't around to see all this craziness. In a small way I'm glad you can't see it either. Much as I need to see you, I'm not ready yet. I only hope you'll be able to understand why once I am.

Only three more weeks until I plan to leave here. Three more weeks until I see your face again. This has been the longest nine weeks of my life, Castle. If that doesn't tell us both something, I think we're both doomed. I only hope I can make myself more whole again before we meet.'

He snaps the notebook shut and quietly places it back down on the coffee table. He can't stomach anymore, not right now.

The points that fly off the page from day one, no matter how ill she was, are that she missed him, she wanted him to come to her, and she never mentioned Josh once in all the entries that he's managed to read. He hates finding out how lonely she was – those feelings of frustration, fear and isolation leap off the page – particularly in the beginning when she was at her weakest.

He looks towards her bedroom door. The light is still off, the bottom edge of the door in darkness, and he imagines that she's sleeping soundly now. When he checks his cell phone it's nearly three o'clock in the morning.

He's exhausted and yet wired at the same time, so many thoughts swirling around inside his head and no one to talk to about any of this. There's only one person he can discuss it with anyway, and she is asleep in bed next door.

The journal, the box, the photographs, all the small and big things she kept hold of – they are parts of their story as seen through Kate's eyes, and she's chosen to finally share them with him.

His mind is reeling with words and possibilities when he hears a noise coming from the direction of Kate's bedroom. His head snaps round to look at the door again, and he watches with a dry mouth as the handle slowly begins to turn. She's on the other side of the door and it looks as if she's coming out.

Ready or not.

He stands, knocking the notebook off the table in the process, and a folded sheet of paper slides out from between the pages. He stoops down to pick it up and when he straightens up again, he's looking right into the beautiful, dark eyes of Kate Beckett.

TBC...

Okay, I'm not sure if I'll be able to update this again before Christmas, so I'll say Happy Holidays to everyone in case I don't make it in time. Thank you for all your comments, support and kind words. Have a wonderful, peaceful Merry Christmas. Liv x