Run for Your Life

Show: Rizzoli & Isles

Pairing: No slash, y'all, just friendship/sisterly affection between Jane/Maura, guest spot by Jo Friday

Spoilers: Up to the end of season 2, specifically the episode "Remember Me"

Disclaimer: The show is not mine, nor is the characters. Thanks for letting me play with them. No infringement, of course, intended.

Timeline: Tenuously, in the week or so following the conclusion of "Remember Me"

Triggers: None.

Length: One-shot.

Categories: Angst/Hurt & Comfort/Family/Friendship

Jane holds herself responsible for Hoyt's attack against Maura in the prison. His ghost continues to haunt our favorite detective, with dangerous results. Maura shows Jane that she can suppress things for only so long. Angsty angst.

A/N: I was simply not satisfied with the way that the writers dealt with the conclusion of "Remember Me." I felt that the emotional impact was not properly explored, so this is what I came up with. Hopefully the characters are not OOC. Plenty of angst in this one, folks. Please review.

The shivers won't leave Jane's body. It is almost constant, this uncontrollable reaction that causes her to tremble. It is a mixture of fear, shock and exposure that causes Jane to reach out, strong, scarred hands gripping tightly onto the sink in her apartment's single bathroom. She narrows her eyes, stares into the reflective surface of the mirror above the sink she holds onto like an anchor, like a body's death grip. There, she thinks, eyes capturing the two slight lines on the left side of her pale, slender neck. She tilts her head to the right, juts her chin upwards, so that she can see the scars. Reflexively, her hand reaches for the pale marks, remembers the feeling of the scalpel against her neck. The quick maneuver, a bite of pain, then the warmth of her own blood as it began to flow. The segment of memories is all it takes and her hand shakes, tremors moving throughout her slender frame. She turns the faucet on, tearing her gaze from the scars and what they mean, to watch the water swirl and fade down the drain, the sound a pacifying white noise. She gives the water a moment to warm, then plunges both hands under the faucet unceremoniously, dipping her face forward, splashing the water upwards, trying to break her mind's hold on her body. She gasps as the liquid hits her skin, dripping down to the forest green cotton under shirt she wears. She feels the neck dampening from the sudden movement but doesn't care. The shock of the water hitting her face has worked, for the moment.

Jane pads quietly through the living room but can't help the glance she sends towards the front door. It is still shut, still locked, deadbolt firmly in place, as Maura has left it. Her heart beats faster, threatening to race out of control, her tenuous grip on fear loosening, hanging together by a steadily unraveling thread. She feels the pressure in her stomach; a constantly twisting and wriggling family of snakes has apparently taken up residency there. The imagery sickens her, even as her stomach knots further. She wants her Glock in her hand, to feel the cool synthetic polymer and metal firearm, consistent in a world that has stubbornly become inconsistent, a world that has betrayed not only her sense of safety but now, Maura's. She finds that she has closed the distance between the bathroom and the door, her hands gently moving against the locks in the silent night. She has memorized the pattern the locks form when they are in enacted and the cool metal in its correct formation soothes the snakes so that they settle, or at least, stir less. She turns away from the locks and as soon as she does, she feels the draw of the OCD she has gradually developed rush to take hold, to force her to turn back to the door that she has just checked. It is locked, she tells herself firmly. Maybe, if she lies to herself enough, she can trick her subconscious, trick her mind, and fool her body into believing it is safe. Maybe the fear will leave her and she will stop trembling. She feels pathetic, ashamed and wishes, just this once, she was less self-reliant before. Then, perhaps, she wouldn't know just how out of control she is now.

She is lost in her thoughts as she chews the skin around her thumb, her steps light as to not wake the blonde woman sleeping on the couch. Jane hates herself for a moment, angry at her inability to keep Maura safe. The fear grips her again, a different edge to the same knife, and she finds she must look at the doctor, to verify that she is okay. Because, really, that is all that she will be able to accomplish, now that she has failed to protect her best friend. Maura is scarred, too, by the same man who applied his scalpel to her neck and hands.

The blonde is stretched out on the couch, a throw pillow under her head, a thick, navy blue blanket covering her petite form. She doesn't seem to know Jane is there and the brunette finds herself envious of Maura's ability to sleep, to separate herself from the nightmares that chase the detective throughout the night.

Jo Friday is curled on the floor, her slight form breathing deeply as she smells her mistress. She opens her eyes and looks at Jane but doesn't move away from the couch and the woman on it. Maura's face is calm, peaceful in repose as she sleeps. Though she can't see it, the detective knows there is a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson on the dark coffee table, the light metal frame separating it from the blackness of the table. The idea of it is comforting. So, she reasons with herself that there is a double-locked door, Maura, a .38, Jo Friday, and a marked unit on the street below. Her family, her blood and her oath-sworn brothers and sisters in blue, are bound and determined to protect her, even as she fails in the responsibility of protecting them.

The shivers have begun anew, each step that she takes agonizing as she feels the spike of failure thrust through her feet from the hard wood floor below her as she slowly, painfully makes her way back to her bedroom. Her hand stretches forward, holding the door in place as she slides past it, silent as a ghost. So silent, in fact, that she cringes when the door squeaks a second later, adjusting to the movement of the floor and the brunette on it. She hates herself again, spiteful at herself for what she feels is cowardice as she both shuts and locks the door, providing yet another barrier for the ghost and his scalpel to cut through before he can get his hands on her. She cuts her eyes to the night light shining brightly in the corner of her room, her one open, obvious concession to the fear that grips her and will not let go. Like the mouse caught in the spring-loaded trap, she wants only to flee and never look back.

The sheets she slides under are cold, the body heat she left in them long gone, since her foray to the bathroom and her subsequent adventure to the living room. She curls in, on herself, a tight ball of insomnia and raw nerves, twisted memories and haunting figures. The bedroom is cold and she imagines she can see her breath. The t-shirt and black yoga pants she wears do little to thaw her, though she doesn't remember being this cold earlier in the evening. Let that be her penance then, she thinks perversely, to freeze in silence and shiver uncontrollably, to pay for failure.

Her first thought is one of blinding fear, so powerful that Jane does not reach for the gun that she now keeps under her pillow, but rather freezes, like a bird that senses it is being watched by a predator. There is someone in the room with her. Worse than that, there is someone at her back, in the bed with her. She shuts her eyes tightly, her breathing growing ragged as she fights to control the fight or flight instinct adrenaline has kicked into gear. You coward, you fucking coward, she rages at herself. Do something. Protect your sister. Protect Maura. She feels it then, like every nerve ending in her body is screaming. Someone is in the room with her.

Maura wakes confused and a bit disoriented. It is dark and she is on a couch. She swivels her body, putting her feet down and feels pulsating fur. She starts, then smiles in the darkness, her mind catching up to the situation, reassuring, calm, as she realizes Jo Friday is curled up on the floor in front of the couch she was laying on, which means she is still in Jane's apartment. The amusement fades from her face as she considers why she awoke in the first place. A quick glance to the window confirms that it is early yet as the sky is not even gray. Her eyes move from the window to the table, settling on the revolver perched there, comforting in its mechanical simplicity. She reaches her hand down, pats Jo, and receives a few tail thumps for her actions. She pulls the warm blanket off of her, setting it to the side, the dark material fading into the burgundy couch cushion. She stands, feeling the area rug through the socks Jane lent her, and stretches, stifling a yawn with her right hand, though no one is there to see her. Her wrists ache and she flinches, remembering the feeling of the restraints against the joints. She rubs them unconsciously as she shuffles to the bathroom. She hesitates in the dark, not wanting to be exposed to the light for more than one reason. Even in the darkness, her agile mind can still imagine the injury, the scar that is forming from it. The sting of the blade, the fear that froze her, the copper smell of blood, hers and Jane's, mixing in the air, along with the scents of antiseptic and death. But Hoyt had lost and so, with that thought cemented in her mind, she turns on the light, exposing her eyes to the image reflected in the mirror above the sink.

She considers herself first as a doctor and then as a woman. As a doctor, she thinks analytically, knowing that the scar will be small, probably only visible to her. And to Jane. Then, her mind switches over, and she looks at the scar as a woman, feels the twinge of anger that comes from being marked against her will and shocks herself with the realization that she is more angry at herself than at Hoyt. Hoyt was an animal, a sociopath, with no sense of remorse; she had a best friend, a sister that she cared for more than her own family. And she had frozen, failed, done nothing more than screamed for a monster to stop; easier for a leopard to change his spots. The anger is white-hot now, leaves her feeling nothing, emptiness and angst vying for control of her emotions. She grips the sink as tightly as she can until her knuckles become white with the effort. Her mind, so adept at analyzing the obscure minutiae of death, turns on her, nailing her emotions to a slide, perusing her thoughts and feelings under the microscope. Her thoughts are dark and swirl dangerously, sucking her under.

She is torn from her blackness by the small sounds coming from Jane's bedroom. She lurches from her fixed position on the bathroom floor to the bedroom door, not noticing the imprints the sink leaves on the palms of her hands. She puts her ear to the door, trying to ascertain what the sounds are. Some people talked in their sleep, though she has never known Jane to do that. A frown crosses the doctor's features as she turns the knob quietly, surprised to find it locked. In response, the frown deepens, furrowing her forehead, concern narrowing her eyes. She stands tall, dragging her hand gently along the top of the doorframe, her thin fingers feeling for the simple key kept there. At last she feels flesh meet metal and she closes her hand around the key, wasting no time in entering the brunette's bedroom. She stands, only a few inches inside the doorframe and looks at the flailing figure in the bed. Jane has twisted and turned so that the sheets are wrapped around her lean frame, fear transforming her features. She is breathing hard, harder then she did when they ran together, as though the air couldn't come fast enough. She is panicking.

Maura's movements are unconscious as she rushes to the bedside, where Jane has rolled onto her back, entangled by the sheets, in danger of falling. She pushes the tangled black strands of hair away from the brunette's face with one hand, shakes her shoulder with the other hand, trying to pull her from the nightmare. Each successive shake is firmer, until Maura is yelling the detective's name. Finally, the other woman's eyes open, slowly, glassy and red. Jane looks at Maura, blinks, and stares at her for a moment. A long beat passes and then, "Jane?" Maura whispers, scared, worried, at the lack of recognition. She watches the brunette's eyes slowly close, hears her breathing even out as she slips back into slumber. The doctor's eyes travel around the room, looking for a clue to the brunette's behavior. She sees the nightlight, blazing in a corner of the room, and knows what it means. Jane is afraid. Worse, she's afraid and did not confide in Maura, which is unusual. It is not Jane. Jane knows how to hide herself from everyone, including those that know her the best, but has chosen to let Maura past her guard. More than once the doctor has found herself surprised and elated when Jane has dropped her personal barriers and told her flatly how she feels, without pretense, without the tough shell of armor she usually wears so well. Maura remembers lying in this bed, the brunette beside her, when Jane had said, "I've never been so afraid in my whole life," a humorless laugh escaping her lips, her eyes dark with fright.

She has not moved from the detective's side, studying her sleeping form as she sometimes does when she is awake, and is trying to understand her behavior. Jane is complex but Maura often surprises her by her ability to perceive, to understand the brunette's emotions, sometimes before Jane does. In this moment though, she does not understand Jane. Why would she not tell her what she's feeling? That she is having problems?

She watches the quaking start, tremors moving first through Jane's visible hand, gripping the bed sheet, as she rolls to her side, then through the rest of the brunette's body, as though she is cold to the core. The blonde's eyes linger on that hand, the crescent-shaped scar white in the darkness. Maura stands, circling the bed, her eyes locked on the other woman. She has absolutely no wish to make the brunette uncomfortable and lifts the comforter tentatively, sliding onto the mattress behind her slowly. She thinks of all the pain the two women have experienced, and how much stronger she has always thought Jane was for surviving Hoyt's attacks, and for her decision not to kill him when he had abducted her the first time. She would've broken the law, betraying the oath she swore to keep, and it would've decimated her. Part of what made the detective strong was her surety in the law, in the sense of Justice she maintained. Shooting Hoyt's hands had squared them, in Jane's mind, and returned her sense of balance. Still, that bastard had struck again and again, until Jane had stopped him permanently.

And now, as Maura watches her figure, Jane shivers, curling into herself, resuming the fetal position. The doctor's reaction is unconscious as she pulls the lean form against her, feels the stiff tension in the brunette's body as another nightmare courses through her. She throws the down-filled comforter over the both of them as she holds onto her best friend, closes her eyes and waits for the morning to come.

Maura is not sure how much time has passed since she joined the brunette in the bedroom but she is suddenly aware that the environment has changed. She hears Jane's breathing, ragged and harsh in the darkness, a clear indicator of how out of control the detective is. How much fear she feels. They are no longer touching and as Maura's eyes become accustomed to the darkness, she sees that Jane is on the edge of the bed, her back to the doctor, her shoulders so tight Maura imagines she can see the knots the muscles have formed underneath the green shirt she wears. The doctor reaches for her, places her hand on the detective's back and feels the slight jerk as Jane draws her spine painfully straight. Maura feels the sweat soaking the green shirt, despite the coolness of the bedroom, and feels the reaction from Jane to her touch. She is simultaneously confused, because they have had what Jane jokingly refers to as sleepovers, where they have slept in the same bed, and afraid that she has made a grave error, encroaching on the space of a vulnerable woman who does not even feel safe in her own home, her own bed.

Jane snaps then, her hand shooting up, sliding under her pillow, reaching for the weapon she has kept there since Charles Hoyt and she rolls, without grace, from the bed to the floor, firearm in hand and pointed at the ghost. She lands on her butt and scoots like a small child, her legs pushing against the floor, until her back is pressed against the closed door. Her finger is tightening on the trigger, disobeying a cardinal rule of firearm safety, as she is not sure of her target, but her training recedes to a corner of her mind reserved for logical thought as images from the nightmare assist a new surge of fear in confusing her. She is certain she is locked in her bedroom with a murderer, with a man who has tortured her, threatened her, a man who has taken too much from her. A man that she failed to stop, and could not prevent from realizing her link to Maura, who had relished the idea of killing them both. The figure from the bed is speaking now, low words of caution accompanying a plea. Good, Jane thinks, Let him beg. Let him be the one to see in his killer's eyes how much I don't give a fuck. She pulls the trigger.

Maura pops up as she watches Jane more or less tumble from the bed, berating herself for forgetting that the detective slept with a gun under her pillow. The barrel looks enormous, and her intelligent mind pulls forward a study she has read that stated witnesses who have had a gun pulled on them during the commission of a crime often do not remember anything about the subject besides the image of the barrel. She forces herself to look past the barrel, to see the dark-haired woman holding the gun so tightly her hands are shaking, fear etched in every line of her face, sweat beading her brow. Maura feels herself start to sweat and knows that Jane is not pointing a gun at her, but at Hoyt. She speaks slowly, her words low and calm, a plea for Jane to realize that she is not pointing a firearm at a dead man, but at her best friend. The gun is another revolver and the doctor watches, almost clinically, as the cylinder begins to rotate, the hammer drawing back. The blonde is frozen and finally understands the term "sitting duck" as she watches her best friend, finding herself unable to move, as she was once before in the prison medical area.

Jane snaps back then, her eyes widening in horror, and the revolver falls from her limp hands. Thank God for the double-action. She had not fully pulled the trigger, the hammer had not come back and forward. The shot had not been taken. In the split second it took her to focus, to find her target, her training, her logic had reasserted itself, and she had remembered that Hoyt was dead, his apprentices, dead. She kicks the gun away from herself, covering her eyes with one hand. She pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping the other arm around them and cries. Her body shakes with the impact of what she has almost done, what Charles Hoyt and his ilk have done to her. She feels Maura's arms enclose her and she sobs harder, hating herself, her turmoil greater because of the harm that had almost befallen her at the detective's own hands. Eventually, she feels a gentle hand cover the one over her eyes, pressing it down so that Maura can see the brunette's tear-stained face. Jane is briefly surprised to see that Maura's eyes are red and watery, evidence that she, too, had shed tears. Probably in fear, the brunette thinks bitterly.

Maura leaves her hand on Jane's, and peers into the brown eyes. They stay like that for an uncounted amount of time, until the doctor is certain of what she reads there. At last, Jane drops her eyes to the floor, and can't help but look at the revolver several feet away from where they sit.

"Jane." The blonde's voice is comforting, calming, a note of concern contained within the single word, but none of alarm. Tiredly, the detective swivels her head, looks at her. "You have got to talk to someone about this."

Surprise, then outrage, then acceptance, flicker across the taller woman's face with the speed of a light switch. The words she speaks are at odds with her expression. "I can't, Maura. I can't."

"No," Maura responds firmly. "You won't. There's a difference." It scares her that Jane hasn't bucked at this direct confrontation. It means she is not herself.

"If you won't talk to someone, will you talk to me?" the doctor is careful to keep her voice even, without demand. Despite her mental plan, she says, "Please?" her voice a near whisper.

Jane hears the word and deflates. She owes Maura that much, doesn't she? To try and explain why she had aimed a gun, tried to pull the trigger, almost…she can't complete the thought, is beyond glad she didn't complete the action. She loses herself for a moment, her eyes unfocused, as she considers what would've happened had she pulled the trigger. She winces, feels her chest tighten, her breathing constrict and tamps down on the emotions, telling herself she hadn't. That is her only saving grace, she didn't.

The blonde watches Jane's face, sees the myriad of emotions that cross it and doesn't understand. But, she is patient, and waits for Jane to speak. She is conscious of the warmth in their joined hands and the sadness she feels because Jane had not come to her. They could've prevented this, together, like they do most things.

The detective focuses her gaze on the night light, still the only source of illumination and takes a deep breath, her chest rising. She knows the tremors want to begin, but miraculously, Maura's grip on her hand seems to keep them at bay. "I don't know how to explain," Jane starts, her voice raspy, tight with emotion. She can feel the taunt muscles in her shoulders, the pain in her neck. She feels Maura's hand squeeze hers gently and she purposefully drops her shoulders. At last, she turns her head and looks the blonde in the eye.

"I failed you. You have always counted on me to protect you and I failed. Hoyt played me and you paid for it." Her lips are a thin line as she speaks, jaw clenched, pain in her dark eyes. Maura waits, without interruption, for the detective to continue.

"The first time, before we knew what Hoyt was, when he…" she swallowed hard, "When he attacked me and when Korsak rescued me…it was bad," she allowed, though Maura knew that word didn't cover it. "You didn't know me then, not really, but life was…rough…for a while. It took a lot to recover. But I did. People I didn't know, civilians, were his victims and I…" Jane pauses, tilting her head. She nods once, the mane of dark hair moving in the light. "I was a victim." She admits it quietly and Maura feels her heart ache, her stomach clench, the sensation similar to when Hoyt's apprentice, Stark, had appeared almost two years ago, once again evoking fear from the staunch brunette.

When she speaks again, Jane's voice is distant. "One of the things the department made me do was go through therapy." Maura hears her distaste for the idea clearly. "I did not want to talk about it…to let anyone know how weak I felt. I just wanted the fear to go away. It took me a long time to be able to step into a dark basement. But eventually…eventually it fades, the way scar tissue does." It was an ironic statement because both women's scar tissue was unlikely to fade; clearly, there would always be marks left by the machinations of Charles Hoyt.

Jane's features twist, darken. "Then Hoyt got me again, using Stark. I killed Stark, though," she says, almost a reminder to herself, "But Hoyt lived. I couldn't kill him, do you understand that?"

Maura feels the dark eyes on her face, searching her expression. She keeps her features neutral but nods. She does understand.

"I shot him, pierced his hands the way he did mine, only with a .40 caliber bullet, not a scalpel and I remember thinking, as he turned over and showed me his hands, that he was making fun of me, taunting me with my inability to cross the line, to finish the job." Her voice arches up, anger coloring it. "The job? Do you hear me? Like I'm some kind of executioner."

Maura waits beside her, conscious only of the vulnerable woman on the floor, the anger and disgust in her voice, her words a spoken truth that the doctor already knows.

"Then, Emily came after me, through Frankie. Hoyt started attacking my family." She says the word and the blonde hears the outrage in her voice, as though that thought never crossed her mind, as if Hoyt had ever stuck to any kind of code, least of all an honorable one like Jane's. "And Frankie killed her. Hoyt got to mess with me…and you," she says and her eyes drift from the far wall back to Maura's face. "He tried to make you doubt yourself. He found my Achilles' heel and worked on finding yours, manipulating you. He tried to make you think you were like him."

Maura remembers her conversation with Hoyt, the deceptive practices he had put into his actions, successfully causing moments of self-doubt and worry. She remembers Jane's hands on hers, her words as she told Maura, without any sign of reservation, that the doctor was nothing like Hoyt, could never be like him. She realizes that Jane is watching her face again. It is Jane's turn to squeeze Maura's hand, to reassure her, and she does so then. "The fact that you asked the question, were genuinely worried, shows that you were nothing like him then, Maura, and you sure as hell aren't now."

How is it that Jane knows just what to say to her? Maura does not try to keep the small smile from her lips at the brunette's words, but doesn't speak, knowing this conversation is not about her. She remains silent, waiting for the other woman to resume speaking.

Jane feels a shiver travel down her spine. If Maura sees it, she doesn't comment, though the detective can feel her eyes on her face while the brunette has deflected by turning her gaze to the far wall once again.

"I wish I had told you to stay at the office," she says quietly and it takes the doctor a few moments to understand. She had insisted that she come with Jane, hoping to help the detective discern when Hoyt was lying, and secretly believing her presence would act as a calming influence on the brunette. She still was not afraid of the monster, though she would learn to be, through the day's events in the jail.

"Maura…I was scared when he picked me up and slammed me onto the table. When they produced the restraints...But I wasn't truly afraid until I was helpless to save you and he walked toward you with that damned scalpel. I lost my mind when he started to cut you." She stops, the dark mane of hair swinging again. "You are a part of my family." Jane says the sentence with ferocity in her voice, her free hand curling into a fist.

Only now does the doctor feel the urge to interrupt.

"Jane, you have always fought harder for your family than for yourself," Maura says quietly, her eyes locking onto the dark ones of her best friend. "I remember when Marino took you hostage, how I tried to stop him from leaving the morgue with you. It was the look in your eyes and your words. I knew you were trying to protect us, Frankie and I. And Frost told me that when Marino had you hostage, your only concern was for Frankie and that Marino made the fatal mistake of telling you that Frankie was most likely dead already. You were not logical to turn the gun on yourself and fire the Glock. Except, ultimately, you were, because you knew somewhere, deep down, that stopping Marino was the only way to get Frankie help. In your mind, your life was an acceptable loss…" she pauses and a sad smile flashes across her features. "Though your loss would not have been acceptable to me."

"Not that I needed this demonstration, but the way you fought the corrections officer and Hoyt… the determination on your face…you did not fail me. You saved me." Maura sees Jane drop her eyes, the disbelief and anger mixing on her angular face. The doctor lets go of her hand and encapsulates her chin, turning the dark head so that Jane has no choice but to look at her, to see the sincerity on her face. "I froze, Jane. Even before the electrical charge from the stun gun, my fear paralyzed me. I hate that fact, but there it is," the blonde speaks calmly, armed with the knowledge that she has come to terms with it, though it makes her sad.

"You didn't freeze. You are not a coward. You're not," Maura says, the edge of steel in her voice. "As much as you may want to forget the experiences, we are both scarred women. Until you work through some of these things, you won't heal."

Jane is silent, her eyes drifting to the curtains, where a pinkish glow has begun to creep in, an accompanist to the rising sun. Maura follows her gaze, watches the light fill the room.

"Maura," she can't even look at the blonde, shame written across her features. "I am so sorry…" her voice cracks and she can't continue. She is trying to apologize for everything, for not trusting her, for trying to deal with something that is too big for her on her own…for pointing a gun at her. It is not enough and Jane is all to aware of that. But Maura is…Maura. The arm that she has strung across Jane's shoulders tightens, until their shoulders are touching. The doctor leans her head on Jane's.

"I know," Maura starts, her voice full of its usual candor, brooking no argument, "That you would never hurt me on purpose. You have nothing to apologize for and nothing to feel guilty over. You did not hurt me. Once you realized what was going on," she shrugs, an inelegant maneuver coming from the usually regal woman, "You stopped. You regained control of the moment," she says simply. "You have to decide to regain control of the coming moments. I'll be here for you," she offers.

Jane opens her mouth to speak and stops, clamping it shut. Maura maintains her position, with her arm around the other woman, but lifts her head to look at the detective's profile, anticipating the question before Jane gains the courage to ask. The doctor doesn't speak, knowing how important it is for Jane to ask.

"If I agree to go to…" Jane swallows, the sound loud in the early hours, "Go to counseling, can I go outside of the department?" She looks at the blonde beside her. Maura nods, thinking, that's not the question, Jane.

"…And…will you go… with me?" Jane's voice is small, betraying the vulnerability she feels, in her pacing of the words.

Maura smiles sweetly at her best friend. "We'll do it like we do everything: together." At last, she sees a smile cross Jane's face, a flicker of the woman she was previously peering out at her, seeing past scars and ghosts, seeing only her best friend and sister.

A/N: Hope you liked it. Please review. Thanks, y'all :)

Artist: The Fray "Run for your life"

"Seventeen years by her side
Broke the same bread
Wore the same clothes and we said
We're sisters with nothing between
If one of us falls
The other will soon be following

Both of you fell the same day
You don't know why
One of you never woke up
And you laid your body down on the floor
You're desperate to hear her footsteps again
But this house is on fire, we need to go"