She sighs in her sleep. Her hands, complete with scars, clench involuntarily in her sleep. Positive Myoclonus, or muscle contractions are usually normal precursors to normal sleep patterns, but can have neurological implications if seen in conjunction with other symptoms. However, I have not recorded any other physical abnormalities with Jane, aside from the bullet wound in her side. Her hands relax, Negative Myoclonus, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Jane is fine. Jane is healthy. Jane is alive.

It's interesting how the processing of the wide-range of emotions resulting from a traumatic event will often be reduced to simplistic sentences and thoughts.

Jane is alive.

I allow myself to relax as much as possible in my wrinkled dress and uncomfortable hospital chair. She should wake up soon, and I will be here when she does.

"Maura."

My name is a statement, a question, and the answer all at once. When I became so poetic? These few hours watching her suffer in silence have left me retreating into my own inner consciousness and wondering what will happen now – now that she has done this, almost died, almost left me – can we go back to how things were? I want more from her and I need more from her now. She is alive. Thank God.

"Jane." I answer her quietly, my hand reaching for hers. "You are in the hospital – you are going to be fine.

Her eyes are heavy-lidded and dark. She swallows and her hand grasps mine like a lifeline.

"Frankie?"

"He will make a full recovery. Your parents are with him. If you'd like, I can go and get them. I know they have been waiting to see you." I continue holding her hand. I never want to let her go.

"No." She is firm. "Stay with me." Jane closes her eyes and moves imperceptivity. I know she is uncomfortable, but is unwilling to ask for anything. Quietly, I lean over and enter the override code into her morphine machine. Sometimes being a doctor has it's perks – the floor nurse has given me permission to adjust her pain medication to try to keep Jane as comfortable as possible.

We sit in silence for several minutes. There are so many things I want to tell her, but I am afraid. My eyes try valiantly to memorize every nuance of her face. It's unusual for her to be this quiet and still for this long. I know she must be in tremendous pain, and I release her hand and start nervously fussing with her blankets. I need to keep everything in order.

"Stop. I'm fine." She commands, and I instantly freeze. It's amazing the power she has over me, even lying stricken and half-dead in a hospital bed. Technically she is not "half-dead." I would have to run extensive tests on her vital organs to determine the percentage accurately.

My mouth opens in horror. How easily it is for me to retreat from reality into percentages, facts, and logic. This is not a healthy or productive way for me to react to this situation.

My entire life has been based on logic and facts. It was easier for me to focus on the tangible than rely on emotions. Logically, it would be fair to concur that my distant parents and their lack of emotional connections with me resulted in the evolution of a child who preferred things factual to imaginative. In fact, over 60% of adults with emotional disorders place the blame directly on their parents or upbringing for their own emotional problems.

Shaking my head, I realize that I am doing it again. No more – I am a highly trained scientist or well-above average intelligence. I should be able to easily override my normal responses in favor of my emotions.

Jane relaxes in the bed, and I can tell from her even breathing that the morphine is having its effect. I carefully document the dosage and the time to desired response in her chart as I wait for her to fall asleep. Once she does, I will report everything to the nurse and find Angela and Frank. I will help Jane by being highly logical and efficient.

I sink into my chair with the cold realization that maybe I am not what Jane needs. I provide security to her, another woman in the department, relief from the "boys club", and someone to talk with. We are great friends, she's the only friend I've ever actually had, and I understand now what all the girls were talking about when they spoke so highly of their "best friend." I provide a logical and methodical manner to counter-balance Jane's impulsiveness and instinct.

I am certain that with very little effort, we could continue our current relationship until one, or both, of us found someone else to date. Or, I could, for the first time in my life, put logic aside and listen to my heart. What would Jane say? Certainly one of her clever, yet crude, colloquial expressions like "shit or get off the pot." Tactful, I muse. One of the many things I adore about her.

"Jane?" Her name spills from my mouth before I can stop myself.

"Mm?" She responds, and it is clear she is nearly asleep.

"I love you." My voice sounds unfamiliar to my ears.

She smiles and reaches out for my hand demandingly. I take it and am surprised by the strength I find in her grip, even after all she has been through.

"Luvyou." Her voice is raspy and soft. She sighs, contented, and falls asleep.

I resume my seat in the chair next to her, our hands firmly grasped.