AN: I don't know where this came from or where it's going. Come with me?

Richard Castle was feeling down as he trudged towards his SoHo loft. It was empty more than it was full these days, with his mother settled into her new place, Alexis in and out with school and PI work… and his wife; oh, his beautiful wife; just unexplainably walking out of their life together.

He knows there has to be a reason. Every time he sees her, her face betrays her. She looks at him with an openness and longing when she thinks he isn't looking. She gravitates towards him when he's in her presence. He and Kate Beckett share something, some connection, that neither one of them fully understand. They are linked. Forever and Always.

He pulls his jacket tighter, feeling the cool November chill, mixed with an ache that he can only attribute to missing part of himself. Richard Castle feels exceptionally uneasy. He forgoes the elevator for the stairs to get rid of some of the nervous energy in his body and rid himself of the chill from the walk. Half way up the staircase, he contemplates heading back down to drown a few sorrows (named Kate) at the seedy bar down the street. He thinks that he'll attempt to write a bit, play some Halo, and try to sleep instead of the consuming numbing libations that part of him craves.

At first, when he opens the door, nothing seems out of place. Everything is exactly where he left it. Except, it isn't. There's something, just under the surface, that he can feel is different. He walks to his answering machine: no messages. He calls up the stairs for his daughter: no response.

He drops his keys in the bowl by the door and hangs up his coat when he hears it: A low moan from the couch.

Like a wounded animal. Pain laced with exhaustion and fear. But it's not an animal. He knows that throaty sound. He knows. He knows all her sounds.

He rushes around the couch in a panic and falls to his knees beside where she is lying… No, where she's been dropped, on the couch.

"Kate!" he pleads. "Oh, God, Kate."

She's in the suit that he saw her in earlier today. She's tied up with duct tape. She's bruised and bloodied, unconscious on his couch. He looks her up and down, his hands hovering over her, not sure where to touch to make this better, murmuring her name like a chant. That's when he notices the sign. It's on a white piece of paper. It's written in, what looks to be, her blood.

STOP HER

"God damnit, Kate!" He exclaims as he clamors for his phone in his pocket. He dials the familiar three numbers in a fog. He gives the dispatcher his (their) address, her badge number. He tells them what state she is in and chokes on the words as he describes the scene. He hangs up and dials Esposito (he's before Ryan in his alphabetical phonebook), and he describes the horrible scene again. The boys disconnect and vow to rush over.

It's just him and his wife now. His wife, who hasn't lived in their home for nearly 2 months. His wife, who is bleeding from god-knows-where. His wife, whom he is attempting to free from the duct tape binding her with shaking hands. He knows he probably shouldn't be contaminating the scene like this, but he can't sit on his heels and leave her bound.

He hears the sirens approach, whether it be from the boys or the paramedics, he doesn't know. He knows that his time with her is running short. He leans down and brushes the matted hair off of her brow and replaces it with a gentle kiss.

"I love you, Kate." He whispers, and the words fall from his lips. "I'm going to take care of you, now. I won't let you down this path. I can't do this again. I can't watch this again. You need to stop, Love. You need to stop this. I'm going to make you stop."

His front door opens.

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