Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli & Isles nor 52. If I did, I wouldn't be sat on my laptop writing fanfic. Credit to Greg Rucka for the dialogue used from the comic.
A/N: This storyline is totally ripped from one of my favourite comic books "52." I was rereading it recently, and it struck me that I could totally adapt it to suit Jane.
It's not an exact copy. I've taken out the fantastical elements, and thrown in a whole load of my own stuff, and the more I write the more it's taking its own shape.
Spoilers: Takes place after the events of 2x15

Week 1

Jane Rizzoli sat at the bar of "The Sussex." Her favourite bar. At least until tomorrow.

"Maura!"

It was dirty and run down, but she didn't know anyone there, and that made it perfect. No one she knew, and not a cop bar anywhere nearby. Perfect place to throw back another drink and try to forget about what her life had become.

Jane watched as her friend raced towards her fallen father. She quickly followed, needing to help. Needing to do something. As she'd watched Paddy fall her heart had begun to pound painfully in her chest. She was terrified. She knew everything was about to change.

Picking up her glass she eyed the dark brown liquid. Swirling it around, listening as the ice rattled.

Stripping off her jacket, she knelt beside Paddy and Maura. Reaching forward she was stopped.

"Don't touch him."

"Maura, please."

"No. I mean it! Don't you dare touch him."

"The end of my world." She whispered to herself.

"What, you find yourself with an empty bottle, Rizzoli?"

Jane looked up at the balding bartender. "Funny." Throwing her drink back, she slammed the empty glass down. "Keep 'em coming."

Her all too familiar friend, Mr Jack Daniels, fills her glass. This was her life now.
A scuzzy bar every night to drown her sorrows in, and a random nobody to fill her lonely nights.

It's all she has. Ever since she'd handed her badge and gun in all those months ago. Thinking back she thought it had to be six or seven months, but she'd stopped counting after two. It was too fucking painful.

She threw back the drink, once again slamming the empty glass down on the bar, the ice jumping up and threatening to spill out. Pointing at the bottle on the shelf opposite, she indicated she wanted yet another refill.

"You, uh… might want to slow down there, Rizzoli."

Jane looked blearily up at the bartender. "Or you could just pour faster."

The bartender shrugged and left the mostly drank bottle of whisky next to her empty glass. He knows better than to push. She was too good a customer and she never caused trouble. Who was he to run her life.

Hollow eyes watch liquid rise, as Jane pours herself another drink.

Jane stumbled down her buildings hallway, eyes fixed on where she wanted to reach but unable to get there in a straight line. Stumbling slightly, she lands heavily on a neighbours door, a loud thump sounding. "Shhhh. S-sorry." Having chastised the offending door and apologised to it, she steadily continues making her way towards her apartment. Coat halfway hanging off her body, she pushes the key into the lock and as the door swings open, she steps inside.

"Maur?"

No answer. Never an answer. Always alone.

Muttering to herself while kicking the door shut, Jane weaves her way into the kitchen. Pulling open the fridge door, she takes out a beer and places it on the counter. Right next to Maura's months old letter. The flowing, delicate handwriting stabbing at her heart.

Jane,
I don't know you anymore. I wonder if I ever really knew you.
Whatever we were is now over.

Goodbye.
- Maura

There were no more tears left, but for a moment Jane's face crumples all the same. Then she just looks empty as she stares at the note.
It's the same thing she does every night when she doesn't bring someone back with her.

Looking over to the coffee table, she eyes her personal weapon sat in its holster.
She walked over and picked it up. Staring at it. Contemplating. Feeling the cold metal in her hands. A moment passes and she places it back down. Lifting her beer to her lips, she drains half of it in one go. "Who're you kidding, Rizzoli. You're a coward. Like you have the guts to pull the trigger."

Dropping down onto her couch, eyes fixed on her gun, the minutes tick by and her eyelids grow heavy; and Jane Rizzoli, like on so many other nights, passes out drunk on her couch with thoughts of "what if?"

Across the room, a piece of paper with a "?" is slipped under her door.