This is basically going to be what I think is going to happen in Season 3 - story form. I can't promise consistant updates but I can promise to try and make this as good as I can. Seven months without Rizzles? That's crazy talk. Let me know what you think in the reviews. Also let me know what YOU think is going to happen in Season 3.
"Maura," Jane whispered. "Maura, please. Let me just put this under his head." She waved her jacket by her friend, only to receive the same icy stare she saw moments before. Beneath Jane and Maura, Paddy Doyle lay unconscious and in a pool of his own blood.
Blood that Jane had spilt.
Maura covered the wound with both her petite hands and turned away from Jane. She whispered quiet reassurances to the injured man, though Jane wasn't sure if he was dead or alive. Again, the dark haired detective reached for her friend only to be shrugged away. Maura didn't bother looking up this time. For just one moment, Maura stopped whispering to her biological father and instead spoke only to Jane, words that Jane never thought she would hear from her best friend and coworker. "I never want to see you again," whispered Maura, her words slicing through the tense air. "Get out of here." When Jane didn't move, Maura yelled. "Go." Jane scrambled backwards leaving Maura crouched in her fathers blood.
Gabriel, his shoulder already wrapped in gauze from where Doyle grazed him with a bullet, touched Jane's arm. "I couldn't just be Gabriel." he muttered.
"And I will never be your Jane." Jane whispered gruffly.
Jane didn't like being wrong, but she couldn't think of a time that she was any more wrong than she was that day. Everything seemed like a blur; the ambulances, the paramedics, Doyle being laid out on a stretcher, her best friend – her very best friend – being denied the right to ride in the ambulance with her father... that look alone crushed Jane into even smaller pieces. Maura looked so small as she stood alone in the middle of the room, her shoulders convulsing as she burned through her tears. Somehow Jane fell back among the chaos, gave her report to Cavanaugh when he arrived on scene, and slipped away to her car. As she sat there, her eyes staring idly in the distance where she could still make out the tiny frame of her best friend, she knew she had screwed up. She had made the biggest mistake of her life.
She had unclipped her gun holster from her belt and dropped it on the passenger seat. It felt dirty. Never before had Jane wanted so badly to wash her hands, and never before had she been so scared that this time the blood wouldn't wash off. Roughly, she thrust the car into reverse and pulled out of the lot much faster than she knew she should have. Something had been telling her to stop and to turn around. She had wanted to talk to Maura, comfort her, hug her, apologize – but Maura made it perfectly clear that she did not want to see Jane, talk to Jane, be comforted by Jane, be hugged by Jane or hear any apology Jane could come up with. And really, what type of apology would be even kind of satisfactory? I'm sorry I shot your biological father after he shot my two day federal boyfriend who I shouldn't have told about your biological father because that was sort of a secret between us and Korsak and Frost and I'm sorry I did all this while your mother was in the hospital after being hit by a car that was trying to run you down? Jane had to slam on her breaks to catch the stop sign. No, she thought. That would definitely be a shit apology.
Jane sat hunched over on her couch that night, one hand nursing a beer and the other tangled in her hair. She wondered if there was any chance of Maura forgiving her. Would she forgive herself? She took a swig of beer.
"Nope." She downed her third bottle and sank into the couch, reveling in the darkness of her apartment.
Maura couldn't remember if she had eaten yet. She couldn't remember much of anything. When she closed her eyes, even for the smallest second to blink, Maura saw Patrick Doyle falling from that catwalk so high above the ground, her best friends bullet lodged in his chest. She knew it was irrational to scream at Jane the way she did; Jane was her best friend, her most loyal, caring, loving confidant. Somewhere in the midst of the chaos, Maura found herself longing to both strangle and hug Jane Rizzoli, because she was the one and only person on the planet Maura had ever found herself able to relax around. Being Jane's friend taught Maura how to be herself. It taught Maura who she really was. Having Jane as a friend very well saved Maura from a life of everlasting loneliness, whether Maura liked to admit it or not. This was mostly because Jane Rizzoli taught Maura things about herself that she never wanted to know; how broken she truly was and how fragile. How badly she needed someone, when her whole life she insisted she was fine on her own. So as Maura knelt on the ground beside her biological fathers bloodied body, she bled as well. Something inside of her broke.
"Hello Bass," Maura crouched down to pat her tortoises shell. He was one of the greatest sources of comfort Maura had in her life prior to Jane, and now Maura wondered if he would be the only source of comfort post-Jane. Post-Jane. How ridiculous those words sounded to Maura as she poured herself a glass of wine. A very large, very full glass of wine. One sip, two sip, three sips – Maura let the cool liquid slip down her throat, hoping that on its way down it would numb some of what she was feeling. Patrick Doyle – her father – no, Patrick Doyle; he was still alive. Unconscious, in what Maura could only assume was unbearable pain, but he was alive. Jane hadn't killed him. There he lay at the hospital, his wrist handcuffed to the bed and three federal agents standing at his door. Somewhere deep inside Maura knew that, logically, the federal bureau of investigations could not consciously let a mob boss lay in a hospital unguarded and unrestrained; nevertheless, she felt a stab of anger as she watched an emotionless agent slap the cold metal cuffs against his unmoving hand. Maura pulled herself away just quickly enough to avoid the pressing stares. Everyone knew now. Everyone knew she was Patrick Doyle's daughter. Everyone at the department knew and she was sure that the story of what happened at the burned down factory would be front page news. Somewhere in there, she would be able to find her name.
Maura Isles.
Chief Medical Examiner at the Boston Police Department.
Biological daughter of head mob boss, Patrick Doyle.
Yes, she would be able to find her name alright. And next to her name – or maybe not next to it, Maura reasoned – but somewhere in the jumble of half-baked words and incessant journalistic rambling, Maura would be able to find Jane's name. Detective Jane Rizzoli, best friend to chief medical examiner at the Boston Police Department, shot Patrick Doyle, biological father to Dr. Maura Isles. It would be there, Maura thought as she took a large sip of wine. The glass was half-empty now. She set it on the counter and looked around her apartment.
A pair of Jane's shoes sat at the back door where she kicked them off every single time, completely ignoring Maura's protests. Her jacket – an official Boston Police Department jacket that she wore whenever they went running – was hanging on the coat rack, and Maura knew that if she were to go look inside the right pocket, she would surely find Jane's iPod. A small food and water dish for Jo Friday was kicked to the side of the fridge, and hanging just above on a hook attached to the wall was the spare leash Maura always kept for her when Jane brought Jo Friday over. The fridge itself seemed to be a collage of Jane and Maura's friendship; a photo of the two of them at the Dirty Robber on Maura's birthday, another photo of the whole family – Maura, Jane, Angela, Frankie, Korsak and Frost – sitting around Maura's dining room table. Above that was the stupidest drawing Maura had ever seen in her life.
"I don't understand why you won't just go with me," said Maura as she took a bite of the omelette Angela had just sat down in front of her. Jane cocked an eyebrow and looked at her friend with great indignation.
"Really? You don't know why I don't want to go?"
Maura set her fork down and stared at Jane pointedly. "No, no I don't. The artwork being shown is one of a kind, Jane. It's priceless. Some have said that it could be the art of the future."
"Yeah," Jane snorted. "I bet it's a bunch of forks glued to some tin cans with a – wait, what's the term that you prefer to use? A phallus shaped object taped on the front. Boom, art." she took a large bite of sausage and set her fork down as well. Maura was glaring at her. "What? Aw, c'mon, Maur. You can't really want me to go with you." The honey blonde said nothing. "I'm not interesting in going and seeing highly sexualized, perverted artwork with a bunch of di-hi Ma." This time, Maura laughed and dotted the corners of her mouth with a napkin to cover it up. Jane glared over her coffee mug.
Angela, completely oblivious, slapped down another plate of toast and smiled. "Any plans for tonight?"
"Well, I was going to take Jane to an art show that I've been hearing about but apparently she has some sort of affliction with the human male's pe-"
"-riodicals. Their periodicals. Yeah, they write a lot of them, and they're all so chauvinistic and...manly. Very woman get back in the kitchen kind of stuff. So anyway," she took a long swig of her coffee, her eyes peeking over the top edge so she could see her best friend. Maura sat across from her with a very satisfied smirk stretched across her thin face. Jane snatched a napkin up from the holder and sneakily removed the pen from Angela's belt loop. "Okay, look. Maur. You wanna see real artwork?"
"Hey that's my pen!" Angela protested. "I need that to take orders and stuff."
"Yeah, 'cause you're so busy." droned Jane, throwing her arm around the restaurant and pointing to all the empty tables. She turned back to Maura. "This is artwork. Hey, no peeking." she shoved Maura's face away from her. "Turn around." Hesitantly, Maura turned away from Jane, occasionally turning around just enough to sneak another bite of her omelette. When Jane had put her finishing touches on her drawing, she proudly turned it to face only her and held the blank side in front of Maura's face like a blanket. "Okay, are you ready?" She didn't wait for Maura to respond. She flipped the napkin over and on it were two stick drawings, both girls, one with very long wavy hair and the other with thick curls. The one Maura presumed to be Jane had a crooked stick in her hand.
"What is that?" she asked, pointing to the object in question. Jane stared blankly at Maura.
"It's my gun."
"No," said Maura, shaking her head. "That's a deformed stick. You can't possibly believe this is better than what we would be seeing at an art show, Jane. These are anatomically incorrect and it looks like it was drawn by a five year old." she stabbed a piece of omelette with her fork. "You know, no head could possibly be supported by a body of that size."
"Maura, it's a stick figure." The M.E didn't say anything. "So of course it looks like it was drawn by a five year old. That's what five year olds do. They draw stick figures."
Puzzled, Maura cocked her head to the side. "But you're not five,"
"It's a joke, Maur." Jane sighed. "Just do like all good people do with drawings by a five year old and put it on your refrigerator."
"What do you mean?"
"What do I – what do you mean what do I mean? Didn't your mom ever hang your report card on your fridge, or a drawing or something?"
"I-... well, no."
Jane leaned forward and grabbed the doctor's purse, stuffing the napkin inside. "Next time I come over, that better be on your fridge." she grabbed a piece of toast and spread some jam on the top. "If it's not, I'm going to seriously regret coming to this stupid thing tonight." Maura broke into a wide smile.
"So you'll come?"
"As long as there is beer after."
Maura touched the napkin with her index finger. It had been on her fridge since that very night. She pulled herself away and walked upstairs to her bedroom. Before Jane, she hadn't realized just how lonely she felt in such a big house. Now, on the nights Jane didn't stay with her, Maura found herself keeping on lights she never left on before and letting the television stay on simply so she could hear the voice of another human. More often than not, Maura would turn down the bedding in the spare room in case Jane did show up in the middle of the night like she did so many times in their friendship. She neared the spare room first, and peeked in. Really, it wasn't a spare bedroom anymore. It was Jane's. If she had to, Maura couldn't count the times Jane stayed over on her fingers and toes. Presently, Maura could think of at least fifteen times in the past month that the doctor and detective had had an unofficial "sleepover". The dresser in the farthest corner of the bedroom held a few bits of clothing that Jane had left here and there, and Maura was sure that in the closet there were at least two dresses – Jane's skin hugging black dress and her v-neck red one. With one last look at the room, Maura turned the light off. She wouldn't have to turn down the bedding tonight.
Because of how often Jane slept over, Maura's own bedroom seemed like foreign territory. The girls usually fell asleep side by side in Jane's room after a long night of talking or watching movies. Maura would always wake first. She would carefully untangle herself from Jane, who had the very endearing habit of spooning – though Maura would never embarrass Jane and tell her. Maura smiled as she slipped off her shoes. Jane would be mortified if Maura ever mentioned it. Her smile turned to a frown.
Would she ever speak to Jane again?
Maura walked to her mirror and stared at her own reflection. Her eyes looked tired, red and puffy. She seemed paler than normal. Everything about her seemed different; she seemed sadder, emptier, more broken – when Maura looked at herself, she saw her teenage counterpart. She saw the girl who stayed up all hours a night filling her head with useless information in order to deter herself from thinking about her family – or, lack thereof. She never wanted to think about the mother who was too busy with her own career and social life to come to her piano or dance recitals. Maura never wanted to think about her father who cared much more about the money he was making than how Maura spent it on boarding schools, books and research. She certainly never wanted to think about the parents who so easily gave her away to whoever would take her. Above all, Maura didn't want to think about how utterly alone she was, and how those books were her only true companions and science was her only love.
First, Maura slipped off her jacket. Following that, she unbuttoned her top. When she had finally shrugged it off her shoulders, she slid her skirt down her waist and soon she was standing in front of the mirror in only her bra and underwear. Those soon came next. There Maura Isles stood, naked and exposed in front of the mirror. She stared at herself for a very long time, before finally baking away and taking a seat at the edge of her bed.
She was naked. Everything about her was naked.
Maura couldn't feel a thing.
