I awoke to the sound of running water, a quiet gushing that could almost be compared to the sound of a river running, in the far distance. I sat up, aware of how cool the night had become and the dampness of the air as it touched my skin. Quickly glancing to the bedside table, the old wood a dark bronze that reflected the green digits of the digital clock that sat, quickly ticking. 5:38. I slipped off the edge of the bed, my pyjamas almost catching on the drawer handle and disrupting the careful array of books I had stacked in a sleepy daze the night before. The floor was clammy against my feet and I shivered. Entering the hallway, I approached the bathroom, my heart thumping so loudly in my chest I began to wonder if the flatmates above me would hear it. Brushing my hair out of my face, I grabbed my spare gun from the third shelf of the modern bookcase that ran the lengthways of the hall, its shelves filled with various books, although the third shelf was dedicated to Richard Castle's novels. Stepping towards the bathroom door, I positioned myself carefully against the purple doorframe. On the quiet count of three, I pushed open the bathroom door. To see a dark figure leaning up against the wall, the shower running so that the floor was nearly covered. On instinct, I hit the light switch in the attempt to throw some light on this stranger's face, and was surprised to see a trench coat and a hat. Typical Sherlock Holmes style. Raising my gun, I swallowed.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"

The man chuckled, a deep snigger that echoed menacingly through the tiled room.

"Ah, Kate Beckett. You've been looking for me for years, yet it is I who found you. Looks like the little detective has failed, once again."

And with that, a gunshot echoed through the flat, a stabbing pain rearing through my side. Then everything went black.