Disclaimer: I don't own Castle in any way, shape, or form. Furthermore, the only similarities between this fic and the Sondheim musical Into the Woods are their titles and the recurrence of certain fairytale references. No copyright infringements are intended; this story is merely written to improve my writing skills and provide entertainment.

A/N: This oneshot is set where 3x24 leaves off. It was written before I saw 4x01, so it contains some minor inconsistencies with that episode.

"Entering the Dark Forest or the Enchanted Forest is a threshold symbol; the soul entering the perils of the unknown; the realm of death […]"

– J.C. Cooper, An Illustrated Encyclopaedia Of Traditional Symbols

She's lying there, far too pale, the blood providing a sharp contrast to her rapidly greying skin.

Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, he thinks hazily.

It's too hot and sunny a day for anyone to die.

"Kate? Kate!"

She doesn't answer.

With trembling fingers, he undoes the buttons on her coat and pulls her shirt up to examine the wound, and oh God, he's going to be sick. He never thought the first time he saw her topless, she'd be covered in her own blood.

Without looking away, he yells hoarsely, "Someone call 911!"

Someone's shoving him out of the way. Oh, right, Lanie. Lanie has medical training. Lanie will know what to do.

He moves aside without a murmur, afraid of making things worse.

Lanie's face is pale, but she's doing a good job at pretending to be composed. Her movements are briskly efficient and her tone is commanding as she demands a cloth.

Before the words are all the way out of her mouth, Rick has his jacket off.

He doesn't know what's going on, but Lanie is muttering ominous sounding words like "possible open pneumothorax" and "cutaneous vasoconstriction" and he can't look away.

It's not supposed to end like this.

It can't end like this. As he'd told Alexis, the Just should be rewarded and the Wicked punished. He knows that this is real life, but not even real life could be so cruel as to take Katherine Beckett from this world before her time, could it?

Of course he's a writer, not stupid; he knows that life can be that cruel. He refuses to believe that, though, refuses to accept it. He can't. That would be too much like giving up.

The rest of the day is a blur, from the ambulance trip to the hospital to the interminable wait for news of Kate's condition.

While they're waiting, his mother forces him to wash the blood – Kate's blood – off his hands. He scrubs at it until his hands are red and raw, but he can still see it there, still feel it.

They had all warned him, hadn't they? About how bad it had gotten the first time around, how obsessed Kate had been? But he hadn't listened. Oh no, not Richard Castle. He had known better than all of them.

So he had pried and pushed and sent her back into her own personal abyss. He had sent her to her death.

[When Little Red Hood had plucked a flower, she fancied that another further off was nicer, and ran there, and went always deeper and deeper into the forest and farther and farther from the safety of the path.]

He'd thought his motivations were pure when he'd first pried into Johanna Beckett's case, but had they been? Or were they merely an attempt to gain attention, insight? An attempt to get closer to the woman he loved rather than to genuinely help her. He doesn't know anymore, but he curses the day he ever spoke those fateful words, "It's about your mother".

Sure, he'd tried to stop her from losing herself, but it had been too little too late. She'd already wandered too far from the path of rationality, already been sucked back into her vortex of vengeance.

When he finally emerges from the bathroom, he discovers that the crowd in the waiting room has grown.

Ryan and Esposito have returned. He only has to look at their faces to know that they didn't manage to catch the shooter.

He cocks his head to the side, silently asking if they found anything.

Ryan shakes his head grimly and Esposito scowls in affirmation. Nada.

Lanie and Esposito are sitting next to one another, hands linked. Similarly, Ryan is by Jenny, both of their faces pale and drawn.

He vaguely recognizes the face of another detective from the Homicide division – Walker, maybe? – sitting across from Jim Beckett. Alexis and his mother are seated side-by-side next to Kate's father, all of them looking a bit shell-shocked. Alexis' eyes are red, her cheeks tear-streaked; she's half nestled against his mother's shoulder. His mother's face is haggard with anxiety, but she's obviously trying to stay strong for the people beside her. And Jim Beckett's expression is panic-stricken, eyes half-wild and hands clenched so tightly that the knuckles are white.

Rick knows how the man feels.

In times of stress, Rick is normally a pacer, a jiggler of limbs; he's normally the guy who bugs the lady at the sign-in desk for updates so often that she threatens to hurt him.

But he's never been in a situation this serious before. To his shock, he discovers that this time he can only sit stock still, hands clenched, muscles taut. He's defenseless against his own mind, which keeps spinning worst case scenarios.

It's at times like this that he hates having a writer's imagination.

Kate, dying on the operating table at this very moment.

Kate, stuck in a coma with the minutest of possibilities of ever waking up, let alone regaining her mental faculties.

Kate, waking up part-way through the surgery and causing the surgeon to make a fatal mistake.

Kate, killed or kidnapped by a henchman disguised as a doctor or nurse.

He shudders, and tries not to let the room swim around him in his breathless panic.

"They've – we've got security on her, right?" he asks Ryan and Esposito, not caring that his voice sounds as desperate as he feels.

"We've got her back," Esposito assures him quietly. "Two trustworthy plainclothesmen are outside her door."

Ryan nods in solidarity, and Castle cautiously lets out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding in.

And so the waiting continues.

Some time later – minutes? hours? years? – Ryan says, "Jenny and I are going to grab everyone some food from the cafeteria. Want anything?"

Rick shakes his head, unable to fathom the idea of actually eating anything.

"Get him something," his mother orders. "He'll want it later."

"Right," Ryan mutters, face still pastier than normal. "What about you, Mrs. R?"

Waving her hand limply, she says, "Whatever you find is fine, dear."

And her response only serves to remind him of the gravity of the situation. Normally his mother would be diva-ing it up, reminding Ryan to call her Martha and complaining about the quality of hospital food.

After collecting everyone's food orders – and reminding them to call with any updates on Beckett's condition – Ryan and Jenny depart.

And the waiting continues.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

He vaguely wishes that that damn clock would be quiet. It seems to be taunting him that precious time – and with it, possibly Kate's life – is slipping away.

There have been no updates.

"No news is good news, right Dad?" Alexis says, trying to smile for him, simultaneously breaking his heart and making him love her even more.

"I hope so, pumpkin," Rick says, leaning over to smooth her bright hair. "I hope so."

This room is so white, so sterile. No wonder it's where hopes come to die. It's lifeless.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Silence.

He waits.