So, at this time I was supposed to be on the road, trailer hitched to my truck and headed west. Stormy weather on I-70 has delayed that plan. Instead, I'm preparing to break camp with all kinds of little chores/big chores-not the least of which is dumping my holding tanks so I can shower. Anyway, won't be able to check in as often as other days, but I hope you all have a great day!

This is the worst it will be, at least emotionally, in my opinion. So hang on, and know that it will only start to (slowly) get better in the next few chapters.

Trigger warnings for suicidal thoughts.

"Hello, Kate."

She groaned, though it was soft enough to be inaudible to her visitor. Why couldn't everyone just leave her alone? She didn't want company; couldn't stand the abject pity in their eyes as they regarded her. They felt sorry for her, but they had no idea what it all felt like to her.

Rent…into pieces.

Shattered; smashed; severed from all she'd held close.

Fractured.

If her heart were visible, she'd always imagined that it would have appeared as an elaborate and stunning stained glass window. When she'd been young, and had parents, the sheet had been a kaleidoscope with mullions separating brilliant colors and complex patterns. She'd been whole, and beautiful. A work of art, cherished and cosseted by the love of her family.

Her mother's murder and her father's abandonment had cast a pall over her and dulled the vivid colors: muted them to a monochromatic display of grays and blacks. She'd still been functional, but a shadow of her former self.

Richard Castle's incursion into her life had lifted the pall. It had been a gradual process, and initially she wouldn't have said he was anything but a negative influence, in general. However, it hadn't taken long for him to infiltrate many of the defense mechanisms that protected her so comprehensively—most of the time. He'd brought sunlight and joy back into her life, and she'd begun to sparkle once more.

Then the events of the last month and a half had splintered her heart into millions of tiny shards. They surrounded her now, a waterless moat of glinting glass. The tiny circle of friends and family that remained to her stood well outside of it, and every attempt they made to reach her just scattered the fragments into more chaos.

With time and a lot of work, she might be capable of taping the pieces back into some semblance of its former glory. She wasn't sure she had the energy to even start. What did it matter? She was irretrievably broken, and the one person who might be able to reassemble it with her into a whole once more couldn't stand to see her anymore.

Wouldn't even want to, were he to know the whole truth.

She lay still, hoping without believing that her visitor would just give up and let her return to the silent, stagnant seclusion that she now merited.

"Kate?"

He wouldn't walk away content with her remaining mute. He'd never allowed it before, so why she thought she might get away with it now was a question that wasn't even worth considering. He wouldn't let her, so she might as well face him.

It was a surprise, of sorts, that he was here at all. She supposed Lanie had called him, or perhaps her dad or one of her doctors. None of them, not even the professionals in the white coats, could mask that they were concerned about her mental state. This visit had been inevitable, but she'd figured it would be after she'd been discharged from the hospital, not before.

She opened her eyes and feigned stretching, as if she'd just woken up. He likely saw right through it, but was too polite to mention it. Turning gingerly in her bed to minimize the pulling pain from her stitches, she greeted him without a smile.

No one got a smile anymore, even a fake one.

"Dr. Burke."

"May I come in?" He was standing in the doorway, appearing hesitant to bother her. She knew better. He was here to assess her, and he wouldn't go away until he was satisfied.

Instead of answering, she just indicated the chair next to the bed. It would be his choice to enter, not her invitation. Of course, it didn't really matter, as he came in without waiting any further. But, it made a difference to her. This was being forced upon her, not asked for.

Not asked for at all.

He settled in the chair, smoothing his pants down with his hands and then carefully placing his coat in a neat pile on the neighboring chair. If she hadn't known him better, she might have thought he was stalling before he was forced to address her. Everything he did was deliberate—she knew that from their many hours spent together. This charade was intended for her to relax; adjust to his presence and thus be prepared to bear her soul.

Yet, knowing it was intended to put her at ease didn't mean it wouldn't work. The two of them had built a relationship of trust and respect through their previous meetings. She found herself thinking about how she would describe things to him—of what to say so that it made some modicum of sense.

After so many sessions together, she recognized that speaking to him was like speaking to her reflection in a mirror, only better. Her reflection only listened. Dr. Burke often guided her to alter her perception of something so that it wasn't as destructive. She longed for that kind of direction now, but feared that it would be too little, too late.

He'd closed the door behind him, and the quiet silence that surrounded them reminded her of his office. It was intimate; cozy. The kind of quiet that encouraged a discussion; fostered dialogue.

The only sound she heard now was the intermittent whoosh of blood rushing past her ears: a slow cadence that announced one more pump of her heart had occurred.

One less until it stopped altogether.

It was late afternoon, judging by the long shadows on her walls and the golden glow that penetrated the small window of her room. Her lights were off, as they had been since she'd first awakened after the surgery. The nurses taking such efficient care of her would flip them on at night, but as soon as they were finished with whatever task they needed, she always asked that they turn them off again. Some gave her a look of pity, but most didn't seem to register her request as anything more than a desire to sleep.

"How are you?" His large brown eyes were the same as always: curious, empathetic. No trace of pity that she could detect.

"Fine. I'm fine." It was her rote answer, and often was enough to satisfy those who really didn't want to know.

He was not one of them.

"Your family and friends are worried about you."

"Is that why you're here?" There was more of a snap to her words than she'd expected. His words would have annoyed her—maybe even angered her if he'd been seeing her three days ago. Before she'd been pulverized. They couldn't have any kind of power over her now—she wouldn't allow it. Emotions were a complication she no longer deigned to acknowledge.

"No, Kate. I'm here because I care about you. You've been through some incredibly stressful events, and I thought you might like to talk about them with me."

She looked down at her hands, which were clutching her sheets. "I—I guess so."

He shifted slightly in the chair, reclining into a more relaxed posture. She would have missed the subtle movement if she's been looking at his face, but her peripheral vision caught it as she stared at her palms. Had he been tense because he thought she'd refuse him? Or was it simply a matter of settling down for a long talk? He gave her little time to consider the issue, launching into conversation right away.

"Great. Let's start with easy questions. When do you get to leave the hospital?"

"Tomorrow, if I can drink enough to keep them happy and if my incision looks ok."

"Are you nauseous?"

She shook her head. "No, not really. I just—just don't feel like drinking much. It's easier now that they brought me a pitcher," she pointed to the bedside table with its surface sporting several Styrofoam cups and a pink colored plastic pitcher that appeared to be holding ice water. "I know how much I need to drink, and it has markings on it."

"Sounds like you have it under control."

She slammed her eyes closed, body stiff. Very little was under her control, and it was taking its toll on her.

She had plans to take back control.

"What will you do after you're released?"

"I'm going to my dad's cabin." She didn't look up, but heard his soft exhale. Not what he wanted to hear. One more person she'd managed to disappoint. The line was growing steadily longer.

"Who else will be there? Your dad?"

She shook her head, mute. He was silent for longer than she expected; opening her eyes, she saw he was regarding her steadily, without judgement. A look she could hold onto; trust.

"Do you think being alone is what you need right now?"

"Have you ever spent much time out of the city? Away from the bright lights and hordes of people?"

If he was surprised by her non-answer, he hid it well. "No. Not really. My family lived here and we had even more relations that lived in Philly, so most of our vacations were spent somewhere with them."

She peered off into the distance of the room, lost in memories both near and far. "I've been going to that cabin since I was a kid. With my parents. Loved the freedom it represented when I was young. I could go outside, run amongst the trees, and make friends with the chipmunks and squirrels. Nothing like living in the city. In the sunlit day it was a magical place, but it really came alive at night. The sky up there is so dark; the stars so vivid. It really makes you appreciate why, in the days before electricity, that the night sky was considered to be so important. We shut it out now, with our twenty four hour artificiality. But up there, in the mountains…it's an incredible sight."

She paused, looked shyly at him to see his reaction, but she needn't have bothered. He was listening, as always. Her private confessional. Looking away again, she continued.

"When I became a teen, I hated going up there. I wanted to spend time with my friends, not in the middle of nowhere. I forgot about the magic of the place, and the enchantment of the night sky. Then, with my mom's murder and my dad's drowning descent in to drink, I never went back. Until after my shooting. And it was during my weeks up there, recovering, that I finally understood the power of those sparkling stars in the sky. The secret that they wield."

She was quiet for a few seconds, recalling the nights spent lying on a blanket or sitting in a chair, the dark velvet cast before her. Watching the myriad points of light twinkling down.

"What secret is that, Kate?" his deep voice asked softly. Neither wanted to break the spell she'd painted.

She swallowed, hoping he'd understand what was about to hear. Hoping that she could explain it properly.

"Those stars shine down, giving their light over the course of eons. They are incredibly important to us: the sun gives us life. They guide us, and have for centuries. But nothing that happens here, on Earth, has any impact on them. There are wars fought, empires rise and fall, technology advances. Yet, none of it affects any of them. A person can be born, live and die and have no imprint of any kind upon a star."

She looked back at the therapist, capturing his gaze and holding it. "That's what I want to learn. The secret to be isolated from the world. No more hurt, no more pain. I want to learn how to live without the suffering."

He shifted in his chair, the plastic creaking in a squeal that echoed within her brain. He grimaced at the sound, and she almost smiled at his discomfiture. He so rarely betrayed his feelings in front of her.

"Kate, there is no question you've been through tremendous loss—not only in the past weeks, but in your life. I think it's a common reaction to want to shut yourself off, emotionally speaking, in the face of such tragedy. But do you really believe that the answer is to shut it all down? Ignoring your emotions isn't a coping mechanism, Kate. It's just burying the problem."

She couldn't hold his gaze any longer, and stared down at her hands instead. "I'm not sure I'm strong enough to deal with them. I just don't want to feel anymore. Why is that so wrong?"

"If you wall yourself off again, you'll lose all the capacity for joy as well as for hurt. Life has its ups and downs. I can help you if you'd let me, and I'm sure your friends and your father would be at your side if you let them."

Her head shook, almost violently. "No, no they can't see me like this. I'm too broken. No one should have to be around me right now."

"Is that your choice or theirs?"

"Mine. They think they know me, but the Kate Beckett they know is a woman who's confident and bold. Someone who wouldn't be cowering in a hospital bed. So crushed. So defective. I can't let them see…can't let them see the real me."

"What do you think would happen?"

"They'd realize what a mess I was. And they'd…they'd pity me. I can't stand pity."

"What if they're just worried about you? They want to help you."

She shook her head wordlessly once more. "I can't…I can't. Everyone I've ever loved has been hurt in some way, or left me. My mother. My father. Roy. Ri…" she swallowed, hard. Tears had begun spilling over the rims of eyelids no longer capable of holding them back. "Rick. I'm doing them all a favor, really. I'm a mess not worth cleaning up."

Suddenly Dr. Burke stood up, the grate of the chair being pushed back on the battered linoleum floor filling the room. He was leaving, too. She bent her head and willed herself not to sob out loud. She had no one left.

The mattress tilted slightly to one side, startling her. She glanced over and saw a large hand reaching for hers. Dr. Burke had knelt next to her bed. She gasped, and a soft, warm glow traveled from where his hand was touching hers, up her arm and towards her heart.

"Kate Beckett," he rumbled, his low voice vibrating the vaulted door to her heart open a crack. "You are an incredible person. Over the last few months, as I've had the pleasure of getting to know you, I can honestly say that I've come to marvel at your spirit and to celebrate your determination. You have a lot to offer: anyone would be lucky to count you as a friend. You need to give them the chance to show you how they feel. Cutting them off is not the answer."

She turned into his embrace and sobbed against his shoulder. "It just hurts so much," she murmured, shame and anger battling with her almost desperate need to feel a connection with someone.

He let her go and sat back on his heels after she'd cried herself out. "I know it hurts, but walling everyone out isn't the answer. Letting yourself feel the grief; crying it out is a part of the healing process. Do you feel any better?"

A shy nod was his only answer.

He stood again, searching for the chair he'd abandoned to hold her. Kate's swollen eyes glanced around the room, which was filled with angular shadows as dusk approached. They reminded her of tombstones surrounding her grave.

"Do you mind if I turn on the lights?"

"No, but only one or two," she whispered.

He gave her a sharp glance once more, but then moved to the wall plate with the switches and flipped two of them up. To her relief, the soft glow of the can lights over the door and along the far wall was the only illumination that was seen. She'd been nervous he'd choose the huge fluorescent lights over her bed, which she hated. She felt too naked and exposed under their glare.

Dr. Burke returned to his chair, sliding it forward to be a bit closer to her before settling back down.

"Why don't you want more lights on?"

She frowned, twisting the sheet beneath her hands without realizing it. "I prefer the dark. I used to think that it hid too much. That only the light drove away that which obscured the truth. But now I know that the dark is the truth. I don't need light."

Dr. Burke leaned forward slightly, brow furrowed. "I don't understand. Can you elaborate?"

She flushed and leaned forward so her hair cascaded around her face, hidden for the moment. Her voice, when she spoke, was muted.

"After my mom died; after my dad deserted me…I—I thought I'd hit rock bottom. It was like being in a pit. I could look up and see light far above me, but it seemed so far away. I couldn't climb out, not by myself. It was such a dark place; it scared me. Throwing myself into the work, trying to solve my mom's case, going round and round with no direction. Nothing helped. It wasn't until Roy Montgomery leaned down and offered me his hand that I was able to get out. It still felt like I had one foot stuck inside…until Castle came along. He pulled me the rest of the way out—out of that hole. I was back fully in the light for the first time in years."

She rocked back and forth a few times, arms crossed and clutched to her sides, as if she could hold herself together. It was a foolish thought: she'd come apart at the seams days ago.

"After…"

Her voice cracked and she fell silent again. She sniffed, the sound heavy with the tears that no one could see underneath the curtain of hair that obscured her face from the world.

"After everything that's happened these last few weeks…these last few days…I—I know now that I was never close to the bottom, before. The bottom of the pit. I was on a ledge. I could still see a way out. Wanted out, wanted into the light again."

Suddenly she snapped her head back and pinned Burke to his seat with a glare. Tears continued to fall unchecked from her eyes, but her intense stare arrested him in his seat.

"Now, I know. Now, I know."

"Know what, Kate?" His tone was soft, gentle. A stark contrast to her stiffness and tension.

"What's down there."

He cocked his head to one side. "What's down there?"

"Yes! Down there. I know that I'm at the bottom, now. I know that there is no light. It's just an artificial construct made up by people who're happy. That's what hides the truth. The reality of it all lies in the dark. Deep down in the pit. That's where I am. Where I deserve to be. The absence of everything."

"Deserve to be?" Dr. Burke was starting to sound like an echo. She wondered what that meant, as he'd never been at a loss for words before.

"Yes, where I deserve to be. I have no need for light. I've accepted my place—even grown comfortable with it. So, I prefer the dark."

"The dark." He shook his head, a dog flinging water off of its neck. Refocusing on her, he leaned forward again. "Kate, why do you feel you deserve to be so deep in the pit?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me. Tell me."

She curled into as small a space as possible. Tears still slid down her skin, over her cheeks and splashing noiselessly on the sheet below.

"Everyone I touch, everyone I've ever cared for have been taken from me. I'm toxic to others. My mother is dead. My father didn't care enough about me to stay sober. Every relationship I've had could be described, at best, as temporary. The man I—the man I—love—has given up and found comfort with a woman who, unlike me, is 'fun' and 'uncomplicated.'"

She stuttered to a halt, feeling a lump the size of her revolver sitting in her neck.

"The—the—the baby I conceived. The one night I got with him, we're given a baby as a—as a result of our love for each other. But—but—but I didn't even…know. I had no idea I was pregnant. And I'm so screwed up, so damaged that I can't even do what millions of other women do. Instead of being safe and snug in my uterus, my baby got stuck in a place where I couldn't nurture her. She never had a chance."

She was sobbing now, gasping out sentences between keening moans. Still rocking back and forth, her own arms hugging her in place of allowing others to comfort her. Not that there was any other besides Burke to offer a hug.

"Kate," he started. But she was beyond listening to him, caught up in the misery that she relived every single waking hour.

"I can't even carry a baby. It's probably a good thing: I'd surely be a terrible mother. I can't do anything else right, why should that be different? But there was never a question. My baby was gone before I ever knew she was there."

She took a great gasp of air, trying to calm down. But the words wouldn't stop now that she's peeled the lid back on the box they were shoved into. They came pouring out, and there was nothing to do but let them.

"I didn't think I wanted a baby, not right now. Not with my life so messed up. But when Lanie told me, I just started thinking about what a miracle it all was. Against the odds. And I could picture this little girl with curly hair and big blue eyes. She was clear to me, as clear as a photo. I think it was my baby that I saw. Who she would have been. I had this hope, this joy in my heart when I heard the news. But then," she choked, hands clutched over her heart as she tried to say the words. "Then Lanie had to tell me I was pregnant. Past tense."

Burke had produced a tissue from somewhere and handed it to her. She wiped at her eyes, but the small square of paper had no chance of drying her face.

"I hurt everyone I touch. Everyone. And I can't help but think about my baby and wonder…wonder if…do you…do you think she felt pain? As she outgrew the tiny space that was all I had for her, do you think she hurt when it all suddenly exploded? Did she feel it like I did?"

Burke shook his head. "No, Kate, I don't think so. She was too small. I don't think she felt anything."

"But you don't know, do you? No one knows for sure. Maybe she was as terrified as I was. I didn't know what was happening. But now I know that I've failed at everything I've been given. Finding justice for my mom. My relationship. My baby. I just want it all this pain to go away. Don't you see, I can't be around other people. I hurt them all."

Burke's eyes, distracted by the sight of her fingers worrying the tissue he'd given her into shreds, snapped back to hers. "Kate, this wasn't your fault. Nothing about this was your fault. Do you understand that?"

Unmoving, she stared past him. It had to be her fault. Something she'd done wrong, or something she hadn't done. Everyone who touched her life regretted it, at some point. Her baby was no exception.

Her therapist's gentle rumble brought her back to the present. "Kate, I've asked you this before, but I feel like I need to ask you again in light of all that's happened. Do you have a plan to kill yourself?"

She swiped at her face with the torn tissue, smearing tears but doing little else before she answered.

"No. No, I wouldn't do that."

Burke sat back, relief stark on his face.

It was the first time she'd ever lied to her therapist.