I know I said I would try to get two chapters up before my exam, and I may still make that, but by the looks of how much work I'm having to do is making doing anything except revision exceptionally difficult. Thank you for bearing with me, and for all the love for this.

It's close to one in the morning when he gives it up as a bad job. The case files have yet to turn up, and he assumes it's going to be tomorrow by the time they turn up. Ryan left at about ten, left him to it with a see you tomorrow and a don't wear yourself down. He should go home. Or at least to his mothers so he can be there when his daughter wakes up in the morning, but once he gets into the car he finds himself heading in a completely different direction. Beckett's apartment block is mostly dark, save for the dim glow of lamps behind some of the curtains. The new key has been burning a hole in his pocket for the past thirteen hours, waiting for him to just get enough time to go back. There's no one to greet him as he walks up the three flights of stairs, no one to challenge him about the fact he is, essentially, breaking and entering in to a dead woman's flat.

It is just how he left it the last time he was here, except for the fact there's another three messages on the answer phone. He imagines that they're all from the parents, more heartbroken pleas to please be alive, please let the police just be mistaken, please Katie, please just answer the phone, it's your mother. He listens to the first two, one from her father which seems to be just crying occasionally interspersed with her name, and another from her mother, which is considerably more put together. Not important anyway. The third is just five seconds of nothing, maybe a flutter of background noise, people laughing. Sounds a lot like a night club. Dud call. Butt dial, if someone asked for his professional opinion.

He hasn't actually managed to get a proper look at her apartment yet. He's only ever sat on her sofa, gazed sort of at the many bits and bobs that she keeps around. Kept around. He aims for her bookshelves first, finds copes of Anna Karenina, War and Peace, Dickens and Austen, he's surprised at Homer and Virgil, but when he remembers that Kate was a lawyer with rich parents he realises that her education was probably more enriched than his was. She probably went to classes more often than he ever did, too. Golder, Stoker, Hugo, Orwell and Alcott… she liked to read, and she liked to read the hard ones. There's a whole shelf and a half dedicated to classics, another shelf for what looks like murder mysteries and thrillers, and another full of more contemporary, modern stuff. Personally, he was never much of a fan of the classics. He found them too full of waffle, the sentences ridiculously long and vague, and the characters damn near dull.

Her kitchen is typical of her kind of woman, hard-working and barely at home, the cupboards bare of fresh food, but rather full of dried foods like pasta, noodles, and rice, her fridge with sour milk and about five different pots of takeaway. They don't smell particularly appetising, and he's not hungry. He does her landlady a favour and throws them out. There's nothing else in the cupboards that gives him any clues about who this woman is, or what could possibly have lead to her being kidnapped and then killed in a rather gruesome manner. If CSU were here they'd grumble at him for not putting stuff back where they came from, but what does it matter? She's dead. She's not going to come back and cry about her pasta pot being two centimetres left of where she originally put it.

The bedroom is his next port of call. This is the room that usually gives him the most information, that tells him just who a victim is. Bedrooms are private, sometimes solitary places, and usually it's where people hide the things they don't want on view. Her wardrobe is as he expected. One half for Beckett the Lawyer, and one half for Kate. There are more books, more knick knacks, a box of toys under the bed that makes him believe that Kate Beckett is not as conservative as they originally thought. The idea of a disgruntled one night stand is still lodged in his brain, despite Mike's seemingly solid alibi. There is only one toothbrush in her bathroom, no male products that would mean a serious relationship. It's just her.

He doesn't remember how he got to the sofa. He doesn't remember falling asleep on it either, thinks he must have been more exhausted and worn down than he first thought, but the harsh beam of light that cuts through his eyelids serves well enough to pull him out of a dream that involves, if he's not mistaken, a group of tap dancing pigeons on a bridge in Central Park.

"Who are you?"

"W-what?"

"What are you doing in this apartment? Don't you know this is a crime scene?"

Castle struggles to a sitting position, trying to shield his eyes from the torchlight, but whoever it is that has woken up seems intent on keeping it trained directly in his eyes. "Yes, I'm the detective working the case. I was just checking something. Didn't mean to fall asleep. Not entirely sure how I got here."

"You got ID?"

"Yeah, it's… um," he pats his jacket pocket, searching for the familiar outline of the leather wallet, "it was… here. I swear."

He hears the man sigh, and then hears the unmistakable sound of metal handcuffs. "Sir, I need you to stand up and put your hands behind your back."

"No, honestly, I'm a detective. I work at the Twelfth. My name is Richard Castle, you can phone and ask them."

"Sir, please stand up and put your hands behind your back. I will use force if necessary."

"There's really no need; just phone the Twelfth. They can vouch for me. Richard Castle, badge number 41319-" he ends up on his back sooner than he anticipated, strong arms pulling his arms back with one knee pressed deep in to his lower back. "Seriously, this is so unnecessary officer, um, officer what's your name?"

"Earhart." He replies gruffly, and then tugs Castle to his feet. "Now walk."

She wakes to the sound of muffled screaming and the crash of metal against metal. It scares her at first, makes her flinch back against the bed until she's pressed up against the headboard as far as she can go. It's been nothing but quiet here, the woods blanketing all noise. The guards aren't permitted to speak to her, she has yet to see any sign of the elusive Jerry, and any conversation she gets is whatever she can glean from Kelly. The woman is quite forthcoming with her information; Kate assumes it's because she's not going to get out of this scenario alive. Kelly has more or less confirmed that whatever happens here, whatever they do to her, it's going to be some of her last few days on earth.

Kelly comes bustling in not five seconds later, though she seems more flustered that her usual composed self. "Good, you're awake. Sorry about the noise. Jerry thought it was a good idea to bring a friend home with him. He's not taken too kindly to being tied up. I've given him a sedative, he should quieten down in a few moments." She smiles, a strange mix of kindness and bat-shit crazy that makes Kate's stomach twist in to knots. "How are you doing? Are the stitches holding up? You must be hungry. I'll have someone bring you food."

"Stitches?"

"Yes dear, don't you remember? I imagine you must be feeling a bit woozy still. We took you in to surgery yesterday."

"I don't – what – what did you do?"

"Oh, just made a few minor adjustments. Nothing you'll notice." She pulls aside some of the hair that brushes Kate's neck, brushes a finger around the shell of ear.

It makes Kate squirm, but she's slowly learning that the more she gives in to what they want the kinder they treat her. If she's going to die here, then she's going to take them for what they've got.

"All healing nicely. You've got two days until your next surgery. Do you need anything?"

"Some fresh air would be nice."

Kelly purses her lips, glances towards the window and the woodland outside. "Alright, maybe we can arrange something for tomorrow. Not far, mind you. And you would need to be accompanied. Can't have you running off now, can we?" She cups Kate's chin, thumb stroking idly over her bottom lip. "Why waste such a pretty face?"

Kelly takes a step back, and with a repeat showing of that disturbing smile, coupled with a head tilt, she's gone again. Almost immediately Kate is at the window, trying to find a decent view of her reflection so she can try and see what Kelly has done to her. She doesn't remember the surgery. She remembers Kelly mentioning it, saying something about Jerry, and a schedule, but everything after that is just a blur.

She can feel the stitches running along the curve of her ear, they don't hurt, though she feels like they should. She also can't see whether anything is actually different. Maybe when the stitches come out. She doesn't quite understand this. What they're doing. It sounds like some perverted form of plastic surgery, but for no discernible reason. She pulls the soft, woollen cardigan further around her, a sudden chill making her shiver.

He wakes and he panics. He's learnt it's best not to scream, it tends to bring that red headed bitch back, and he has already had enough of her face to last him a lifetime. Three times she's injected him with lord knows what, three times she's stood and smiled at him as he drifts off into a sleep that consists of just blackness. Not any more. Not again. If he's careful, quiet, he can get one of his hands free and after that it's easy. Or he tries to tell himself that it is. He has no idea what he's facing here. The woman is cazy, he's decided that. There is something disturbing about her, something horrifying that flickers just behind those green eyes. He doesn't know what else, or who else, is crawling around the corridors of whatever building he's being held captive in. He doesn't think he's in the city any more, not if the penetrating silence around him had anything to do with it. It takes him a while for him to get the nut free of the bolt, and the fingers on his left hand are left bloody and stinging as a result. But from there it doesn't take long for him to work the binding free, and half an hour later he's un doing the last strap around his leg and swinging himself to the floor. He stumbles a bit, the lack of food and the effects of the sedative pushing himself off balance, but he catches himself on the wall and after a few deep breaths he can feel his head clearing. He manages to get over to the door and rattles at the door, but there's nothing he can do that will make the door open. Even when he slams his shoulder against it, it barely budges.

Then he hears banging on the opposite wall, a rhythmic thud that sounds like someone is kicking it. Abandoning the door, he crosses to the wall, and aims a good kick at it. He thinks he hears some kind of muffled gasp in response, and then three repeated blows with a fist. He doesn't know what this is, but he echoes it.

"Hello?" is the reply he gets. "Are you okay?"

"I was kidnapped and sedated," he replies, rolling his eyes, "what do you think?"

"Sorry, I know, I mean – you're not injured?"

"Not yet."

"Good." There's a pause, one that seems weighted with trepidation and intrigue. "What's your name?"

"Richard. Richard Castle. You?"

"I'm Kate. Kate Beckett."

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