Question: How do spoiler-free people remain spoiler-free when they know spoilers are circulating like wild fire?

Answer: After PCA voting for an extended period of time, they spend several hours distracting themselves by writing fanfic.

Enjoy.

Episode 11 - "The Fifth Bullet"

'Wow… so gorgeous," he thinks to himself from afar as his eyes lock with hers - so big and brown and enticing, the flare from the street lights setting them aglow.

She's all alone, quietly standing on the sidewalk. Waiting. Just waiting. His pace slows as he approaches her - their steady gaze never breaking.

His hand tentatively reaches forward - as if drawn magnetically to her - his fingers daring to feel her... daring to comb through the short, silky brown strands on her head.

The reflection of the street lights dance in her eyes as she continues to look at him, not making a sound, willing him to touch her. To run his hands all over her body. He can't help but smile as her mouth opens slightly when his open palms caress her neck, her head canting to the side as the tips of his fingers smooth along the edge of her ear - her relaxation evident. She wants this.

She wants more.

Without warning, she lunges at him - her mouth attacking his, her tongue warm and wet against his lips as his huge hands wrap themselves around the back of her head, steadying her passionate onslaught, caressing her with a fervour of affection as she plants wet kisses on his cheeks, his eyelids, his chin, his jaw, his neck…

"Who's a good girl?" he utters in a playful tone, dropping one knee to the concrete below as he scratches behind her ear, her tail wagging excitedly.

The dog flops down comfortably on her side as his finger nails scratch under her chin. "Who's a good girl?" he repeats, his voice hitting a slightly higher pitch than usual.

"On one knee?"

He grins to himself at the sound of Beckett's voice, but he can't bring himself to tear his attentions away from the canine he just befriended. "That's a good girl," he assures the dog, no longer paying much heed to his surroundings.

"What's up Castle?" Beckett teases, the distinctive slam of her car door snapping his attention. "You proposing?"

"Oh..." the writer stammers innocently, petting the dog on the top of her head one last time as he rises from the ground, "no. Just waiting for you."

"That's too bad," she grins playfully as she approaches. "You two make a cute couple."

He really wants to asks if she's jealous, but he bites his tongue and lets it go. After all, she did just watch him get french kissed by a canine. Maybe it's best to let sleeping dog lie.

Just this once.

A missing bullet… how cool is that?!

The moment they left the crime scene, his mind began to race - the possible explanations flooding his brain.

And after receiving a disapproving and deadly stare from Beckett after his first suggestion - it was lodged in the shoulder of the invisible man who was an unfortunate bystander - he couldn't resist poking her even more… because driving her nuts with his crazy theories is just way too fun!

"Come on… the bullet being swallowed by a sudden ripple in the space-time continuum is a perfect theory," he insists excitedly, chasing her out of the elevator as she crosses quickly over to her desk, trying desperately to get away from him.

"Castle-" she warns.

"Okay then…" he interrupts as her desk phone begins to ring, "what about aliens?"

"Aliens," she sighs, picking up the handset. "Beckett," she answers, trying to ignore the fact that he's still talking.

"On a secret mission to study the human culture, they teleported into the art gallery…"

"Sure," she says dryly into the speaker, releasing a long exhale and rolling her eyes.

"But Fink has just been killed as they arrive," Castle continues, half talking to himself, "and the murderer takes a desperate and defensive shot at one of the aliens just as they teleport back to the mothership - the bullet vanishing with them."

Beckett's head whips sharply in his direction, eyes glaring narrowly as she listens intently to the officer in the lobby who phoned her. Amused - yet also a bit terrified - Castle fights back a smirk as he draws his finger across the line of his mouth to mime that his lips are sealed.

It's late and she's obviously tired. Maybe this would be a good time to make her a coffee. As a peace offering. And she might be in need of a pick-me-up since her mug is just sitting there... empty.

Leaning forward to rise from his chair, he suddenly has an epiphany.

"The bullet was made of ice," he suggests firmly as he quickly snaps back into the chair.

"Okay. Great," Beckett replies to the officer's voice in her ear. "Yeah, send her up," she says, hanging up the receiver, not giving his theory a second thought. "Vic's wife is on her way up."

"Fires the bullet, it melts before we can find it."

Good lord, she needs coffee. NOW! Grabbing her empty mug from her desk, she bolts for the break room, her shadow chasing behind her.

"An ice bullet! Hello? An ice bullet? Are you even paying attention to me?"

Does he ever shut up, she wonders as she shoots him down. "No! You aren't saying anything worth paying attention to."

Unfortunately, her much-needed java fix is derailed as the boys head her off, bringing her bad news. No blood trail outside the art gallery. No sign of the missing bullet.

"I'm telling you," Castle sing-songs in her ear as he passes behind her, "ice bullet."

"Nah, Bro," Esposito contests. "An ice bullet would still make a bullet hole."

"You mean, ice hole," Ryan adds.

"What'd you just call me?" Castle remarks.

"Guys," she interrupts with a shake of her head.

Yeah. There isn't enough caffeine in the world that can give her sufficient relief from these three stooges.

Ryan ponders his next move for a brief second, shoving a hand in the pocket of his perfectly pressed dress pants, chewing on this thoughts before finally accepting the slip of note paper being handed to him.

"Thanks Marino," he nods to the uniformed officer, reading the point-form canvass notes.

The two law enforcers part ways as the detective heads towards the elevator, approaching the mystery man. The man smiles sheepishly at Ryan, raising his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders slightly before he utters, "so…"

"So..." Ryan echoes before finding himself at a loss for words. "Uhh, do… do you…"

Unsure of exactly how to address the amnesiac before him, he takes a deep breath as he glances across the bullpen at his partner who's looking back at him, an inquisitive and insistent look adorning the Latino's features.

Man. Javi's gonna love taunting him about this one.

"You really don't know who you are?" the detective asks, returning his attention to the young man.

The man says nothing - just shakes his head sadly.

"And you don't remember anything?"

"Sorry," the man replies politely, pursing his lips together, eyes pleading for Ryan to help him.

"Okay," Ryan states, releasing an elongated exhale, "come with me. We'll figure this out."

Ryan leads the man down the hall, cutting through the bullpen as he directs the man into one of the conference rooms.

"Yo."

"Gimme a sec," Ryan tells the man, who nods understandably, before taking a single step out of the doorway to be met by his partner.

"What's up, Bro?" Esposito inquires as he nods his head subtly in the direction of the mystery man in the room.

"Not sure," Ryan replies, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Says he was mugged."

"Not sure?" Espo scrutinizes.

"He doesn't remember."

Espo glances over at the man who is innocently looking out the window. "Doesn't remember what the mugger looked like?"

"Anything."

"Say what?" Espo stammers, doing a double-take as his eyes shoot back to meet Ryan's.

"Doesn't seem to remember anything," Ryan reiterates, turning his head to glance at the man over his shoulder, "including who he is."

"Well..." Espo scoffs, clearly amused, as he slaps a heavy palm on his partner's shoulder, taking a pregnant pause to milk this moment before adding, "good luck, Bro."

Ryan heaves a heavy sigh and nods before spinning around and re-entering the Conference room.

"Ice bullets and amnesia," Espo grins, biting back a chuckle as he pivots on his heel and struts back to his desk. Special Forces was never this entertaining.

Ice bullets are quickly forgotten as Castle amuses himself with a new toy. The amnesiac.

The clues are laid out before him, one by one - an inhaler, a grocery bag, keys - all pieces of a puzzle that will help solve the mystery. Make the story make sense.

The writer gushes like a proud teacher when Crime and Punishment is pulled from the hidden breast pocket inside the man's coat.

"Dostoyevsky," Castle nods approvingly as the man hands him the thick novel. "Classic. You have excellent taste."

Ryan's eyes widen as he glances at the book. "Castle."

Castle hands it over, watching as Ryan turns it over, revealing a bullet hole. "Nine millimeter. I think we just found our fifth bullet."

Opening the book, the missing bullet is discovered, lodged tightly amongst the pages.

"Damn," Castle mutters, an evident air of disappointment on his breath.

"Huh?" the detective utters, looking up from the book.

"I was so sure it was an ice bullet," Castle sighs. "Now I owe L.T. twenty bucks."

Ryan's mouth falls open, but no words escape before he shakes his head and refocuses. "Hey Beckett!" he calls as he steps out of the room, crossing over to her desk.

"Got something?" she asks, looking up from the papers scattered across the surface of her work space.

"Yeah," he remarks, passing her the open novel, the bullet displayed proudly in the center of the pages. "Found our missing bullet."

"Prestupleniye i nakazaniye," she mutters thoughtfully after flipping the book closed to look at the cover.

"That is so hot…"

Ryan's head spins around to look behind him as Beckett looks up - both of them glaring at the writer who's practically drooling.

Her eyes narrow instinctively. "I said the book's title, Castle," she points out, her voice flat and unimpressed as she rises from her chair. "That's all."

A wide-eyed Ryan chuckles at the writer's expense while escaping to the Conference Room.

Taking a step to follow, Beckett swivels suddenly, gliding towards Castle, entering his personal space - her delicious perfume assaulting his senses and making his head spin. "But maybe next time," she breathes, her lowered voice deep and husky and taunting, "I'll read you some of the dic...tionary."

Knees weakening and heart pounding, the novelist bites down on his knuckle as the detective grins seductively, teeth digging into her lower lip as she raises an eyebrow suggestively and saunters away - leaving the writer to try to remember how to breathe.

"You ever want to read me a bedtime story," he chokes on a faint breath, his words stumbling from his dry throat when he finally regains his ability to speak, "promise me you'll do it in Russian."

Going unnoticed, the writer manages to creep up to the Homicide floor by sneaking up the back staircase.

'Good,' he thinks to himself as he spies Esposito conferencing with Beckett at her desk - the two of them apparently deep in thought, their attention evidently focused on the young amnesiac currently held up in the Conference room.

Silently slinking down the side hall, he slips into the break room via the back door.

She threw him off his game yesterday, but he'll show her he can keep it together. Shake it off. Get off the bench and back in the field.

Careful to make as little noise as possible, Castle preps the espresso machine, wiggling his fingers as he works his magic. New filter, check. Fresh grounds, check. Cold water, check.

As the machine begins to steam and gurgle, he slyly peaks a look through the window, noting that Ryan has now joined the conference.

Turning his attention back to the espresso machine, he carefully selects two clean mugs from the cupboard. Filling his mug and then hers, he wiggles his eyebrows giddily as he lifts the mugs to his nose. 'Perfect.'

Crossing into the bullpen, he heads for her desk. His eyes fall shut for a brief second as he becomes hypnotized by the heavenly aroma of the caffeinated Italian ambrosia permeating the air. 'Beckett's gonna love th-"

His eyes flash open as a body - her body - crashes into him. He can do nothing but gape at the sight before him - her crisp, white blouse stained brown, her neck and chest soaked with dark, scalding liquid.

He's dreamed of so many variations of Beckett and a wet t-shirt contest… but he's never imagined this scenario. And as much as he'd like to put a sexy spin on this, he's got nothing.

Finding his voice beyond the embarrassment, he manages to utter, "I brought you coffee."

"Thank you, Castle," is all she breathes before stepping around him and heading towards the locker rooms, leaving Castle immobile, and still rather shocked.

Game.

Thrown.

Again.

As Ryan and Esposito head out, Beckett returns to her desk. Flipping open the cover of a brown file folder, she purses her lips in an attempt to hide a smile as a steaming mug of fresh coffee is placed carefully on her desk directly in front of her.

"I just, uh…" Castle stutters as she looks up across her desk, her expression schooled. "Uh... thought you'd like..." Castle utters sheepishly, words cracking as they tumble from his lips, "...umm..."

She says nothing, masterfully forcing a confession from him without words.

"I..." he waivers, face cringing, his discomfort extremely evident. "I'm so sorry about that... earlier..."

Damn she's good.

Narrowing her eyes, she lays on the guilt without a word for a few moments before allowing a shy, playful grin to cross her lips as she reaches for the mug. "I'm gonna smell like coffee for the rest of the day," she deadpans, turning her attention to the warm, ceramic mug that's teasing her lips.

"Wonder if you taste like coffee too…" he muses salaciously as Beckett gulps, practically choking as she fights to swallow a long sip, the air around them as hot as the dark liquid now burning the inside of her throat.

He tries to suppress a victorious smile as she wipes the back of her hand against her lips, covering her weak cough.

He's back in the game.

"So," he states, nonchalantly refocusing on the case, "where'd Ryan and Esposito go?"

"Pick up J at St. Vincent's," Beckett explains, finding her voice again after clearing her throat. "They're gonna take him to Fink's Art Gallery. See if being there jogs his memory."

Castle heaves a heavy sigh as he looks down at his own coffee mug, held tightly within his palms, as he considers the plight of the mystery man they know simply as J. The man who, in the blink of an eye, seems to have lost his identity - his entire life - to the dark, shadowy abyss beyond his memory.

"Man... forgetting everything like that, having your mind block out something so significant… so life-altering," he breathes before looking up, his eyes solemn and serious as they meet hers. "Can you imagine what that must be like?"

"No," she exhales with a slight shake of the head, looking back at the open file after a brief moment of intense silence, "but, in a way, he might be better off."

Castle furrows his brow. "How?" How could forgetting a part of your life be a good thing? Ever!

Turning her head, Beckett's brown eyes lock with his blue - her gaze conveying so much more than the six words that follow. "Sometimes, some things are better forgotten."

Castle hovers just outside the interview room as Ryan and Beckett prepare the industrial pleather couch for J to sleep on, Beckett's words echoing relentlessly in his mind. That some things are better forgotten.

Maybe she has a point.

After all, she's suffered so much personal pain - her mother's murder, dealing with an alcoholic father. Perhaps there is some validity to wiping part of your memory.

Pretending it didn't happen.

'But we are a product of our experiences,' he muses to himself. He's definitely not proud of certain things he's done in his life, but if these things hadn't happened, he wouldn't be who he is today. Meredith is… well, she is… but without her, he wouldn't have Alexis. If he hadn't cheated his essay about the Jordan motor company, he might not have that inner drive now that keeps pushing him to want to improve as a writer.

If he hadn't been in Hollander's Woods…

He winces at the memory, but as much as that moment pains him to recollect, he's certain he wouldn't want it erased. It hurts like hell, but it made him who he is. It defined his identity.

And without the words - words that he escaped into - he would never have met Beckett.

Beckett…

He leans against the doorframe, eyes washing over the detective - her straight, brown hair wisping ever-so-gently along her swan-like neck, bangs swooping across her smooth forehead, her svelte frame hiding immense strength. Muscular strength as well as strength of character.

Strength of heart.

"But what if no one does and I don't remember?" he hears J mutter, the young man's worried voice breaking him from his reverie. "Then who am I?"

Castle inhales as he looks at the amnesiac and then back at Beckett, the question hanging out there like an over-filled water balloon, waiting to explode.

"I promise you," the detective assures, "we won't give up on you."

The young man purses his lips together and nods once, though Castle can tell J is uncertain. That he believes Beckett's statement is an empty promise, a platitude.

But Castle knows better.

And when Beckett spins around to exit the room and her eyes lock momentarily with his, he's more certain than ever that there is nothing… nothing… that could possibly make him want to forget an aspect of his life if it meant that she wouldn't be a part of it.

"Some things are better forgotten." No. He can't accept that.

Nothing could ever be so terrible and painful that he would want it completely wiped from his brain.

Nothing.

"I still don't see how a grocery bag is going to help us identify J," Beckett remarks as she exits her cruiser, having been lucky enough to find an empty parking space along West 26th.

"You'll see," Castle replies, shooting a playful smile back over his shoulder as he hustles up the sidewalk, Beckett catching up to him.

"Castle-" she warns.

"C'mon," he grins, "where's your sense of fun?"

"Castle," she states dryly, falling into step beside him, "after dealing with the crazy cat lady who wanted to fake-marry an amnesiac and an attaché who threw diplomatic immunity in my face, I'm not in the mood."

"Just trust me," he placates. "I'm about to solve the mystery of who J is."

"Really," she remarks sarcastically under her breath with a roll of the eyes.

They continue their walk up the sidewalk, Castle not giving her any clues as to his hunch. And to make matters worse, her shoulder just got bumped for the fourth time by passer-bys. Patience is a virtue. Unfortunately, she's running short on supply this morning chasing another inane Castle theory. So she pokes again. "Why are you dragging me back to the art gallery?

"Not to the art gallery. To the street." He looks over at a bike rack before adding, "Ah! It's gone."

She's still not sure what he's looking for. A bicycle? "What's gone?"

"The dog," Castle explains. "That's why he had the bag. To clean up after his dog."

"How do you know it was his dog?"

"Well, why else would he have a bag?" he justifies. "Why else would there be a dog tied up outside a commercial building after midnight? Maybe someone stole it."

Pulling out her cell, Beckett quickly dials the Precinct switchboard. "Get me Animal Control."

Okay.

Maybe his theory isn't quite as inane as she thought.

Sitting across from everyone at the far side of the table, Castle can't help but feel heartbroken. Jeremy Preswick. In the prime of his life. A life for which he doesn't even have the slightest recollection.

The writer had joked about Jeremy being lucky in the fact that he can't remember his ex-wife - but now, sitting across from the young man and said ex-wife, he wishes he hadn't. Because, from what he can see, the 34-year-old lost so much more than just his memory.

He lost a smart, loving, kind-hearted woman in Emma Carnes - and he lost her long before he lost his memory.

An extremely intelligent man with a thriving business… and yet, he treated people as if they were worthless. At least… he treated Emma as if she was worthless.

The word "jerk" escapes Emma's lips and melds itself between Castle's ears.

Jeremy Preswick. A rich, successful badboy who threw love away. Castle's stomach churns at the thought - the notion hitting a bit too close to home.

"The truth is we probably got married too young." Castle nods slightly, empathizing with Emma's statement. Getting married young, for the wrong reasons… he knows the pain of that all too well. Meredith had been a mistake - he never really loved her - but it was the rebound after she cheated on him that defined him for so long. Maybe too long.

"As far as I know, he was dating the youngest, hottest women he could find, and not bothering to put the toilet seat down," Emma remarks.

And even though Jeremy sheepishly laughs it off, Castle can't help but think of his own life - how his thirties were defined by how many times he could get himself on page 6 of The Ledger, how many different women he could sleep with, how many breasts he could autograph…

Hearing the scorn in Emma's voice, he suddenly finds himself wondering if Beckett had the same impression of him.

Has the same impression.

He always liked to believe that she was putting on airs whenever she said she hated him and he was annoying her… but what if it was true? What if she did actually hate everything about him? What if he was becoming such a nuisance that she might no longer agree to have him hang around? What if-

"You coming Castle?"

Shifting his head, he meets her gaze with a slightly lost look. "Sorry?"

"Jeremy's apartment," she repeats impatiently. "Are you coming?"

"Oh," he huffs, snapping from his pensive state and quickly rising from his chair. "Yeah."

She spins on her heel and heads for the elevator, not waiting for Castle as he hastily chases after her. He doesn't have to see her face to know she's rolling her eyes, unimpressed and irritated.

He silently enters the elevator, burying himself behind Beckett as she briefly explains to Emma and Jeremy what she'd like to do when they get to the amnesiac's apartment.

Castle wishes he could add something of value to the conversation. Something intelligent. Something perceptive. But he finds himself unable to speak for fear that whatever comes out of his mouth will be unworthy. That Beckett will look at him with the same sense of dismay that Emma bestowed upon Jeremy.

And for the first time, the bad boy routine that the writer fell into and relished for so long kind of disgusts him.

"Okay, am I missing something?" Lanie wonders, slightly bewildered at this unusual reaction from the detective. "I thought you're supposed to be happy after you caught the killer."

Castle looks across at Beckett's solemn face, her heart evidently sinking as much as his own. Gun residue on Jeremy's coat. The 9mm found in Jeremy's apartment. Abrasions on the victim's body consistent with a struggle.

All the evidence points to Jeremy. And it just feels so wrong.

Returning to the precinct, the car ride is quiet - the hum of the Crown Vic's motor and the cacophony of the surrounding traffic the only sounds. But they hardly hear any of it. Castle can't bring himself to say a word, and Beckett doesn't break the silence. The news they have to break to the amnesiac is not what they had hoped for.

Shoulder to shoulder, the detective and writer exit the elevator and traipse soberly down the hall towards Holding. Making eye-contact with the uniformed officer guarding the cell, Beckett nods once before taking a deep breath as the outer gate is unlocked.

Sitting on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together as he stares at the barren, concrete floor, the six-foot man in the cage looks so small, so frail, as they approach. Looking up from his closed, defeated position, Jeremy looks up at Beckett, his eyes despondent and sombre.

Releasing a deep and heavy sigh, he looks back at the floor, his body sinking even further into itself.

Unable to find words, the writer simply shakes his head and sits down on the visitor bench - his body mirroring Jeremy's - as Beckett leans a shoulder against the cage.

The three say nothing for what seems like an eternity before Jeremy slowly rises to his feet. Beckett remains silent as the young man takes a few laboured steps, pacing sluggishly before turning to look at her.

Beckett opens her mouth to speak, but she dries, the words she doesn't want to utter dying on her tongue.

Giving her a sheepish, forgiving smile, Jeremy breaks the silence. "Why'd I do it?"

"We don't know why…" Beckett replies after a moment.

It's heart breaking seeing Jeremy behind bars. He was so lost. So kind and innocent and cooperative. This just doesn't seem right.

Returning to her desk after the brief conversation, Beckett reflects silently, elbows propped on the top of her desk, closed mouth pressed against her intertwined fingers. Her eyes glaze over as they stare at the row of elephants, the light from her desk lamp casting intricate shadows across their white faces.

The bullpen is dark and quiet, most people having gone home for the night - only a few uniforms wandering the halls, the emergency lights providing dim illumination.

Her eyes come into focus as a white NYPD coffee mug is placed on the desk in front of her, the large hand that was holding it placing it carefully without a sound.

Staring at the dark liquid for a moment, she slowly reaches for the ceramic mug, wrapping her hands around it as Castle sits down in his brown chair. "Decaf," is all he utters, trying to force a smile that doesn't want to come.

"Thank you," she whispers in return, cradling the mug, but not yet lifting it to her lips.

There is a long, drawn out silence, the two of them not even glancing at each other - both of their gazes locked on their respective cups of coffee - before Castle finally speaks, his voice soft and low. "I was thinking…"

Beckett gently turns her head to focus on the author, his eyes still locked on the mug wrapped within his palms.

"He said…" Castle stutters before beginning again. "He said 'It's like I tricked you'."

Looking up at the detective, Castle's eyes meet hers, but she doesn't reply - only waits for him to finish his thought.

"Do you think he-"

"-faked his amnesia?" she concludes, as he nods in concurrence. "I was wondering the same thing," she adds with a sigh, "but…"

"But?"

There's a pregnant pause as Beckett tears her gaze from Castle, looking back at the coffee mug warming her palms. "But all the heartache…" she mutters, "I can't understand why anyone would ever choose to do something like that…"

"Yeah," Castle sighs, his gaze shifting to look down at her mug as well. "Me neither."

Reaching for her cell, she flips it open to check the time. 4:47am. Turning onto her back again, Beckett flops her head back onto the pillow as she stares at the ceiling. She's hardly slept all night, her mind anxious. Troubled. She's exhausted, but sleep refuses to come.

So she gives up.

Throwing the comforter off her torso, she tumbles off the mattress and stumbles her way into her bathroom. A hot, steaming shower might help.

It doesn't.

The subway ride to the precinct is quite tranquil at 5:30am, the regular bustle of Manhattan commuter traffic not yet awake. Normally, she would relish the peace and quiet, but this morning it feels gloomy. Ominous.

The walk from the subway station to the 12th isn't a long one, but lengthy enough to allow yesterday's distress to re-emerge.

Nodding wordlessly to the officer at the reception desk, Beckett heads for the elevator, but reaching for the call button, she halts her movements. Pressing her tongue firmly into the side of her cheek, she opts to continue down the hall, heading for the stairs. The climb might help.

It doesn't.

Normally she'd enjoy the solitude, but this particular morning, it feels off. The quiet hum of the Homicide floor is... disconcerting.

It's not yet 6:00am and there are only a few night staffers here, just packing up their things, getting ready to head home. Normally, she would distract herself by burying herself in her work. Writing a report. Closing the case.

But one look at her work space, and she just doesn't feel up to it.

She slowly peels off her long leather coat and tosses it across the back of her chair. She stills for a moment as she looks down at her desk - two mugs of cold, untouched decaffeinated coffee gracing the surface. Her heart flutters slightly as she picks them up, crossing over to the break room.

Dumping the cold, dark liquid in the sink, she sluggishly rinses out her NYPD mug before reaching for the half-full carafe on the hot plate. Hypnotically filling her mug, she slowly ambles across the room and sets herself down in one of the moulded, plastic chairs, her mind elsewhere.

"Hey."

She's snapped from her reverie at the soft sound of his voice.

"Hey," she replies, her fingers tightening the grip on the handle of her now-cold cup of coffee. The bullpen is thrumming with energy as people go about their jobs.

She glances quickly at her watch as Castle rounds the table to take a seat in the chair opposite her. She's shocked to discover it's almost 9:00am. Almost three hours went by and she didn't even notice.

Silence fills the room once again. She toys with her coffee mug a while longer before she and Castle look at each other.

"The guy is guilty of a murder he can't remember," he begins. "That just sucks."

And Beckett can't disagree. This is not the way she thought it would play out, and even after ruminating all evening, it still isn't sitting right. Because nobody can figure out Jeremy's motive.

The story doesn't make sense.

But the prosecution doesn't need the whole story when they have a smoking gun.

"The D.A. doesn't need it," Castle reasons. "But you and me? I know I couldn't sleep last night, could you?"

His words hit her like a ton of bricks as she meets his gaze. He's right. She needs answers. She needs the truth.

They need to go back to Jeremy's apartment.

"Come on, Castle," she says with a light smile, rising from her chair. "Let's go see if we can make the story make sense."

Beckett feels a heavy weight lift off her chest as she watches L.T. escort a hand-cuffed Darius Langley towards holding. A few seconds later, Jeremy rounds the corner accompanied by Officer Velasquez, a bright smile adorning his face.

Castle returns the grin as the amnesiac approaches Beckett's desk.

"So it's true?" the amnesiac beams.

A smile tugs on the edges of Beckett's lips as she finally gets to utter the words she's been wanting to say the whole case. "Yes, Mr. Preswick. You're free to go."

"But before you do…" Castle adds, looking at Ryan.

"...we thought you'd like to have this back," Ryan smiles. Unzipping a large black case that is sitting on the desk behind him, he carefully removes the original Taglia oil painting and passes it to Jeremy.

"This is mine?" Preswick utters, his thumb unconsciously sliding into the smudge spot on the edge of the image.

Ryan nods affirmatively as Castle adds, "It's also what led us to the killer."

"Wow," Jeremy whispers on a soft breath as he sits down in the brown chair beside Beckett's desk - eyes locked on the painting, Ryan admiring it over his shoulder as Jeremy takes it all in.

"I especially love the fingerprint," Beckett smiles, knowing how that little smudge has saved his life in more ways than one.

Jeremy's thumb runs across the smudge again, almost caressing it lovingly. "Me, too," he grins. "Even if I can't remember, it still somehow feels a part of me."

Castle can't help the warm feeling from flooding his veins as Emma arrives with their dog to take Jeremy home, the sparks evidently jumping between the two.

"So," the writer dares to ask, "are you two gonna…"

"Castle," Beckett whispers, shaking her head as she cuts him off.

"It's okay," Emma chuckles understandingly. "The answer is, who knows? I like him and he likes me. And right now, that's enough."

Good answer, Castle muses to himself with a smile.

As they watch the couple leave, Ryan asks what all three of them are thinking. "One of them has fifteen years of baggage. Marriage. Divorce. The other's on a first date. How long you think that'll last?"

"Hopefully for a long time," Beckett replies with a sincere smile, her eyes locked on the couple as they turn the corner.

"Why, Detective Beckett," Castle remarks. "I had no idea you were a romantic."

"I also sleep with a gun," she teases with a playful smirk. "Bet you didn't know that either."

"How about you, Castle?" Ryan ponders. "How long you think it'll last?"

"Well, I guess it's just the writer in me, but I'm hoping for a happy ending," he says before glancing down at Beckett who meets his twinkling gaze.

Good answer, Beckett muses to herself with a smile.

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Please forgive any typos you may find. They're sneaky little buggers.

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There you go…

Judge away. :D