Chapter 1

Beckett stared at the street camera footage from a cold case, wincing every time she moved the mouse. Her arm hurt. Really, really hurt, and the blood and fluid was soaking through her makeshift bandage. It hadn't hurt last night, or any time before they'd closed the sniper case. She'd wrapped it up, taken Advil every morning, and never felt a thing. The antiseptic that she'd wiped over her cut knees had been worse, and this morning, like the last few mornings, those same knees had been stiff and sore. She tried to ease them, hidden beneath her desk, and had to conceal another wince as the deep wounds pulled apart again.

She hadn't had time to clear up, this morning, also just like the last few mornings: slept heavily, stupefied by alcohol-as-dream-preventer, now that the case was done, and only woken to her alarm. By the time she'd showered and thrown back enough coffee to bring herself to sense and enough Advil to block most of the pain, she'd had no time for anything other than catching the subway. It was, she thought, just as well that she'd ridden the subway home last night, since she certainly wouldn't have been able to drive this morning; though the intervening two hours and three further coffees, chased with plenty of water, had gone some way to clearing that issue.

She shifted the mouse again, and bit hard down on her lip as agony seared through her arm.

"Detective Beckett!" The sharp tones of Captain Gates sliced the air. "My office."

"Yes, sir."

Beckett trailed despondently after her. In the weeks since she had returned to active duty, she and Gates had not gelled in any way, shape or form. Pride kept Beckett as respectful and obedient as she had ever been with Montgomery, but so far she hadn't seen a single reason to like Gates. Fortunately, the caseload had – so far – meant that she could stay far, far away; protected within the comforting circle of the boys and Castle.

"Close the door," Gates ordered. Beckett obeyed. "Now, remove your jacket and roll up your right sleeve."

Beckett stared at the captain.

"Now, Detective. Not next week."

Reluctantly, Beckett removed her jacket, turning away from Gates, ostensibly to find somewhere to put it. Even more reluctantly, she laid it on a chair.

"Turn around."

Beckett did, holding her right arm somewhat behind her.

Gates sighed. "Show me your right arm. Your reluctance indicates that you know precisely what I want, and you are delaying admitting to it."

Beckett's sharp cheekbones acquired a scarlet, shamed line. She extended her right arm. Gates almost gasped. The sleeve was stained an ugly yellow, splotched with rust-red, and as Gates regarded it, the stain spread a little.

"Roll the sleeve up."

Beckett, unable to find an objection or to disobey, did so, avoiding touching the stain. Beneath the sleeve, the bandage squelched unpleasantly.

Gates looked at the mess, looked at Beckett's frozen face, looked back at the mess. "Would you care to explain, before I jump to any conclusions?"

"A glass broke, and I cut myself on it."

"I see," Gates said judicially. "An accident." Her voice wasn't entirely convinced.

"Yes." Beckett said nothing more. Trying to defend herself wouldn't help. Gates' tone indicated that she, at least, didn't think it had been wholly an accident. But it had been. It had.

"That is not a professional bandage," Gates pointed out, and let the ensuing, condemnatory silence stretch out. When Beckett continued to say nothing, Gates, swift as a striking cobra, tapped the bloodied bandage. Beckett muffled a cry of pain. "As I thought." She glared over her glasses. "You will go at once to the ER, where you will have that cut properly cleaned, dressed and, if necessary, stitched. Following that, you will take leave until you can use your arm properly. Detectives Ryan and Esposito will cover your caseload. Since there are no fresh murders, that should not pose them any problems. Mr Castle will not attend the precinct while you are absent." Gates regarded Beckett icily. "When, precisely, did this accident occur?"

That wasn't a question Beckett wished to answer. Another unpleasant silence extended.

"I asked you a question. I expect an answer, Detective."

"During the last case," Beckett admitted.

Gates boggled. "Why didn't you get it seen to immediately?" she snapped. "Solving a case is not more important than your health."

Yet another uncomfortable silence pervaded Gates' chilly office.

"I see. In that case, I shall ask you a different question, to which I expect a full, complete, and honest answer."

Beckett's stomach twisted. She'd known Gates had been an exceptional investigator – she'd done some quiet checking, and found that only one detective had ever had a better record than Gates. Unfortunately, that detective was Kate Beckett, so she wasn't going to be able to appeal this interrogation to anyone else. Her stomach twisted again, and her arm pulsed hotly and painfully.

"I note," Gates began ominously, "that you were given psych clearance to return to duty, after your near-fatal shooting in May."

Beckett waited, hope draining from her.

"Until this latest case," her captain continued, "it appeared that this clearance had been entirely justified." She peered at Beckett. "You cannot be surprised to know that I have paid close attention to your circumstances."

Beckett managed a shake of her head.

"I have continued to pay attention. Your behaviour on this case has been…" Gates paused, apparently seeking an appropriately exact word. "…troubling."

"We solved the case."

"Indeed. You solved the case, but it would appear that it has come at the cost of your health – both physical and mental. I allowed you to finish the case, despite noting several points at which you were clearly under severe strain and where your normal behaviour was replaced by a trauma-driven response. I was, I will admit, surprised that you were able to continue. Rest assured that if I had thought it necessary, I would have removed you."

Beckett boggled.

"However, that case is done. You have no new current cases. It is therefore an appropriate time – on which I would have insisted regardless of the injury to your arm – for you to take leave. You have far more accumulated overtime than is reasonable, and I expect you to use it all, after you have had your arm treated."

"Sir," Beckett said miserably. She didn't want to be forced to take leave.

"Now, my question." Gates paused again, until Beckett was fully focused on her. "Have you, since the start of the sniper case, had, or thought you might be about to have, a flashback to your own shooting – at any time at all, inside or outside the precinct?" Gates waited. Beckett's eyes flicked around the room.

"Yes," she admitted, utterly defeated. There didn't seem to be any option other than honesty.

"Mm. I note with some pleasure that you are not stupid enough to try to lie. In that case, I shall also require another psych clearance. Any time that is not covered by your wholly excessive accumulated overtime and leave will be recorded as medical leave."

Beckett stared at Gates, and entirely failed to understand the magnitude of the concession. Her arm had now moved to agonising, and she could barely continue to stand.

"Sit down," Gates ordered. Beckett's colour was entirely gone, and she was unwittingly cradling her injury. "You will remain here for now." Upon the word, Gates exited.

"Detective Esposito!"

"Sir?"

"Where is Mr Castle?"

Esposito gaped at Gates. "Uh…"

"He didn't come in today," Ryan jumped in. "He…er…he doesn't interfere with the paperwork."

"I see. Summon him."

Both detectives stared at her. Gates had made her abhorrence of Castle's presence transparent at every opportunity.

"I said, Summon him!" Her voice whip-cracked through the bullpen.

"Sir."

Ryan was dialling before Espo had finished the word. "Castle. Captain" – conscious of her looming presence – "Gates wants you to come to the precinct."

"What? Why?"

"Didn't say." Ryan looked around, and found that Gates was out of earshot. "But Beckett's been in there for half an hour or more, so…if I was you I'd hurry up."

"Okay."

In his loft, Castle stared at his phone in astonishment, liberally laced with panic and terror. What in hell would Beckett be doing in Gates' office for any length of time? And why would Gates summon him, when Castle was perfectly well aware that (unlike the rest of the world, who adored him, even Beckett – even if she snarked and snipped) Gates didn't like him.

While he was wondering, he'd automatically pulled on his coat and was speeding out of the door. On the short journey to the Twelfth, he became less and less astonished and more and more terrified. Surely Gates wasn't going to try to throw him out now? Surely she wouldn't fire Beckett? There wasn't any reason to fire Beckett.

By the time he reached the door of the precinct his heart rate had hit around about 250 beats per minute, which probably meant he should be dead. He consciously breathed slowly and deeply, in through his nose, out through pursed lips, just as one beleaguered Pilates teacher had tried to instruct him, years ago; and gradually he calmed down. Well, mostly.

Calm disintegrated as he reached the Homicide floor and saw no Beckett, only Ryan and Espo, both wearing outright worry.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"Dunno. Beckett was in with Gates, Gates came out, told us to find you and get you here, went back in."

"You better go see what she wants, bro," Espo added. "Beckett's still in there."

Castle, now utterly terrified again, hurried to Gates' office and, just about remembering manners and sense, knocked.

"Come in." Gates almost sounded…oh, shit. Relieved. That wasn't good. That wasn't going to be good at all.

And then Castle looked at Beckett, and looked at her arm, and couldn't stop his horrified squawk and appalled words. "What have you done? Your arm's a mess! You didn't say" – he stopped there. Beckett was blinking very hard, and only his body between her and Gates was preventing the captain witnessing the start of a complete collapse. She was grey, teeth implanted in her lower lip, cradling her right arm in its stained bandage. He looked more closely, and saw it to be an ugly yellow, beneath the rusty marks.

"Mr Castle," Gates rapped. He turned to her, and, under her normal chilly demeanour, he noted considerable concern. His view of the captain took a sudden vertical hike. Just maybe, her attitude had a reason. He'd think about that later.

"Yes?" he said.

"You will take Detective Beckett to the ER, remain with her until her arm – and any other injuries" – Beckett gasped – "I have noted that your walk is not smooth – have been treated, and then ensure that she pays proper attention to recovering her health."

Castle gaped. "Her health?" he squeaked.

Gates regarded him over her glasses. "Detective Beckett's arm is not her only issue. She has informed me that she has suffered flashbacks to her shooting. She is now on leave until a new psych clearance is granted."

Castle boggled, then put his brain in gear. "Okay," he said, and immediately turned back to Beckett. "Come on. I'll get you to the ER. Where's your unit, and the keys?"

"Outside," Beckett whispered.

"Let's go." Without a single qualm about the conclusions Gates might draw, none of which would be accurate, he set big hands around Beckett's waist, noting that it was far too narrow, and raised her to her feet as gently as he could. "Can you walk?" he asked, as she shivered, then wobbled.

"Yes…" but it didn't sound certain.

"Please report progress to me, Mr Castle."

Castle met Gates' eyes, and to his utter amazement saw not only concern for Beckett but respect for him. "Medical confidentiality permitting," he said bluntly.

"I do not require details. Merely that treatment is occurring."

He nodded once, sharply, and brought his attention back to Beckett, whose wobbles weren't diminishing. His hand met her back, the sharp protrusions of vertebrae a shock to his already over-shocked mind.

"Take her to the ER," Gates reminded him sharply. "Go."

They went.

Beckett made it across the bullpen floor, though how she did it, Castle couldn't fathom. Her lip was bleeding by the time the elevator arrived, and as soon as its doors closed he abandoned all pretence of neutrality and put his arm around her to hold her up. She sagged against his strength, which worried him more than the gnawed lip or cradled arm. She never allowed him to see her weakened; never anything less than strong. The closest she'd come to revealing anything had been on this last case, and even then she'd hidden rather than lean on him, or her team. She'd also done her level best to conceal everything in the hospital after her shooting, and then run off and hidden as soon as she could.

He kept his arm protectively around her waist, supporting her, until he could ease her into the passenger seat of her car and fasten the seatbelt around her. "Don't try to do anything," he instructed her. "I have the keys."

Beckett didn't answer: all her concentration devoted to protecting her arm. She faintly heard the engine start, felt the car move off, but couldn't parse the movement. Pain blocked everything but the need to keep her arm still.

"We're here." Huh? What? "Beckett, we're at the ER. You have to get out of the car." Castle was leaning over her, carefully removing the seatbelt without it touching her bandage. "I'll open the door for you. Don't try to move till I can help you."

"I'm" –

"Don't say you're fine. You're not fine." His fear and upset boiled over. "Don't lie to me again."

"Again?" she whispered, devastation on her now-bloodless lips. "You knew?"

Well, shit. He'd suspected, but his anger at her blatant denial of reality had led him to bait an inadvertent trap, and she'd fallen straight down into it.

Now what? He couldn't un-hear, couldn't un-know the truth.

He looked up, and found Beckett struggling to get out of the car, not waiting, not looking at him, curled around her arm and into herself. "Wait for me," he bit.

"You don't need to stay." She hunched, broken and defeated, planting her feet and lifting the unbearable weight of herself and her lies. "I can manage. You don't want to be here now. I'll cope." She shuffled a step or two, stopped, caught a stabbing breath, shuffled another step.

"Wait!" Castle yelled, and hurtled out of the car. "We're not having that discussion now. I'm taking you inside and I'm staying until you're fixed up and they wheel you out and then I'm taking you back to mine. You are going to talk to me and then we are going to fix this."

She couldn't answer, simply kept on shuffling towards the ER door, pausing far too frequently to catch her breath. One step, two; breathe, and try not to scream. One step, two – and Castle's hard hand landed at her back and wrapped around, supporting her.

"You're not going in without me."

But she would come out without him, of that she was completely sure. He might take her inside, but he hadn't meant anything by his last few angry words: he was merely enraged. When he'd thought about it, he'd leave. He didn't want to fix it, and anyway she was so far from fixed that she might as well be on Pluto.

Oh-so-carefully, he turned her around so that she was staring straight into his furious face. "You've run away enough already. You're not doing it again now. I've suspected that you lied since we sat on the swings and I'm damn sure there's a reason for it, so you are going to tell me but not now. You have to get that arm treated and from the way you're shuffling something's up with your legs so they can be treated too. Now stop deflecting and arguing and lying and just let me hold you up!"

She surrendered. She couldn't hold her ground or her pride when her arm had moved to hot agony, pulsing with her too-fast heartbeat. For all his infuriated words, Castle's hand around her was shamingly gentle; propping her up and not trying to move her any faster than her feet would go. She stared at those same feet and tried not to disgrace herself by crying.

Crying wouldn't help. Crying never helped. Crying hadn't helped in the hospital, or up at her father's cabin, or at any time on the last case. Crying was a waste of time, effort and emotions.

She wanted to go home and cry her eyes and heart out into her pillow, whether it helped or not.

Castle, angry and shocked though he was, had meant every last word. She wasn't going to sit in the ER alone, and she was going to come home with him where they were going to have an honest conversation. On both sides. She, he decided, was going to admit the truth about what she'd heard and how she felt, and he was going to tell her how he felt without any subtext or messing around.

He steered her into the ER, helping her to sit down, and went to register her entry. Shortly, a brisk, efficient nurse collected her and took her, without Castle, to an examination room.

"Miss Beckett," the nurse said. "What's the problem?"

"My arm," Beckett managed. "And my knees, but mostly" – she drew in a breath as the arm shifted – "my arm. I cut it on some glass."

"Let's take a look." The nurse delicately removed her jacket. "Okay, we'll need to get this shirt off too. Is that okay?" Beckett nodded. "I'll undo the buttons, and then we'll work out how to do it without touching that arm." She looked at Beckett. "Um…you're going to need a clean shirt. You can't put this one back on till it's been thoroughly washed – you'll have to bleach it."

"Uh…"

"I guess your husband could go – oh. Um…" The nurse blushed at her error as she noticed the lack of any wedding ring. "Partner? Anyways, we can work that out when we see how bad this is." She competently undid the buttons of Beckett's shirt. "Slide forward a little, please, and sit up just a fraction." The shirt was loosened and then removed with considerable care. "There. I was worried I'd have to cut it, but no. Now, let me see…" She regarded the squelching bandage with disapproval. "This will have to be cut away. How long ago did you cut yourself?"

Beckett cringed. "Uh…four days?"

The nurse said absolutely nothing, deafeningly loudly, and picked up a pair of sharp scissors with deliberation. "Once I've taken the bandage off, I'll get a doctor in to look at it properly. If it's still bleeding, or leaking fluid, it'll need a really thorough examination. He'll look at your knees after that."

Beckett couldn't care less about thorough examinations, if only someone would make it stop hurting so much. She lay back on the bed, and let the nurse do as she would. The bandage dropped away, and was removed to a clinical waste bin.

"I'll get the doctor. Have you taken any pain relief?"

"Not since first thing this morning," Beckett managed.

"I'll tell him."

Shortly, a small, slightly chubby man appeared, bearing a bright smile. Beckett didn't manage an answering smile. He slipped on surgical gloves, and regarded her. "You cut your arm four days ago," he summarised, "so what's prompted this?"

"It hurts," Beckett confessed. "My boss said I should" – she yelped as the doctor lifted it – "get it treated."

"I'll say. This is quite a mess. Stitches for sure, but I'm going to have to do a lot of cleaning out, so let's get some anaesthetic into you before I do anything else. It's turning into a nasty infection." The doctor swabbed her upper arm, wiped it with a topical anaesthetic, and prepared a syringe-ful of more anaesthetic while the topical preparation acted. Beckett didn't feel a thing as the syringe emptied into her arm.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

As ever, this story is finished. 23 chapters, posted Thu/Tue/Sun. This is my summer ficathon entry.

For those of you who might not have noticed, or who are new, I also write original fiction: the Casey & Carval series. The latest book is Death in Enmity. All books, starting with Death in Focus, are available on Amazon for Kindle, FREE on Kindle Unlimited, or paperback, under SR Garrae.