It was September of 1918 and Jane Rizzoli was on the 20th Century Limited from Chicago to New York. Jane was headed home to Boston with a heavy heart, a troubled mind and an empty pocket. Fast trains didn't come cheap but her mother begged her to return home immediately and, though she would only admit it to herself, she had become somewhat lonesome without her expressive family nearby. Or what was left of it.

And with that thought, a deep, painful pang hit her in the chest.

Days earlier a letter arrived informing her of her brother's death. It was all she could do to keep from crying, breaking down entirely. No, she would wait until she arrived on her mother's doorstep to start mourning. She had been in Chicago for three long and lonely years and had been absent from her family, essentially abandoning them for a job in police work. She needed absolute proof that he was gone or she could not, would not believe it. Not Frankie Jr. He was too vibrant, too young.

The train was incredibly fast and sleek and ordinarily she would have been in complete awe of the tasteful extravagance of design and speed. Jane, however, was not mentally present. Her gaze was unwavering as she looked upon the landscape flying past, absorbed by her thoughts.

Her father had passed some years earlier leaving Angela, her mother, with two boys to care for; Jane had always taken care of herself. Frank Sr. had been a handyman at the Larz Anderson Estate and was the primary breadwinner. It was a stable job and provided the family with enough. When he passed, Frankie Jr. and Jane were relied upon to take care of their ma and that no-good dewdropper, Tommy. Now they were solely her responsibility.

Frankie Jr. and Jane steered their paths in similar directions; Jane moved to Chicago in 1915 to join the newly formed International Association of Policewomen and Frankie hopped over to New York and joined the police department there. While Jane was off fighting prostitution and dealing with runaways, due to her 'inherent womanly nurturing' qualities, Frankie caught murderers and rapists. She could easily get in a lather about society's disregard for women but it would do no good and, in fact, all considering, she was treated fairly within the police force. Still, Jane would have killed for a detective's badge and a chance at a murder investigation.

She sat drumming her fingers, absentmindedly admiring the red, plush carpet. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, hoping all of this was a misunderstanding. In a few short hours she would be in New York picking up a few things of Frankie Jr.'s and then finding a way to Boston where she knew reality would hit her like a ton of bricks. She hoped she was ready.

The doctor sitting on the weatherworn park bench briskly brushed hair out of her eyes; the wind had picked up and was blowing honey colored strands that caught on her eyelashes. She was reading Walt Witman's Leaves of Grass, though the average passerby would not have cared to notice anything but her striking features. She was simply stunning.

Her hazel eyes scanned the passages with grace. One particular line had caught her eye and she felt conflicted.

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her, it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
-Walt Witman, Leaves of Grass

Dr. Maura Isles had seen her fair share of death before the Spanish flu of 1918 arrived. When it did, it arrived in full force and took a lot of young lives with it. She supposed that it was only a natural way to keep check on the world's ever growing population but this particular flu did not play by the rules. Its victims were disproportionately of the young, hearty population.

Maura had seen death rear its ugly head far to many times and only a small portion of those deaths were ever peaceful. Yes, in some ways, she supposed the young men dying were lucky; the delirious fevers and cold chills that accompanied their sicknesses were enough to wish for an end.

The twinge of sorrow she felt quickly blew away with the next gust of wind.

After graduating from the London School of Medicine she moved to Charlotte, North Carolina where she dealt with outbreaks of malaria and typhoid in the civilian population. Her work was superior, so much so that she was offered an assistant surgical position at Camp Greene, the army base in Charlotte. She worked through the bitter cold winter of 1917, one of the coldest in noted history, and into the spring of 1918 before deciding it was time to move on.

It was a mutual agreement. Her superiors had displayed displeasure with her for quite some time. It had nothing to do with her work, which was outstanding as usual. It was because she had written the Hon. Sherman E. Burroughs, an old family friend and distinguished admiral in the navy, regarding the deplorable conditions of the camp. Dr. Isles was a firm believer in cleanliness and hygiene as a means for discouraging transference of germs and disease. It was simply common sense.

Ordinarily this was necessary but the need was even more desperate with the Spanish flu violently attacking the immune systems of the young and healthy. In a camp that housed forty thousand men, soldiers, it was simply inexcusable not to have a sewage system in place or any plans regarding one for the future. Unhygienic sludge ran in the streets. After arranging for an inspection by Admiral Burroughs she quietly bowed out. Later, he would deliver a scathing speech to the House of Representatives describing what he saw at Camp Greene.

Maura smiled softly, vividly remembering the notes Admiral Burroughs sent her.

When the warm weather comes, as it is likely to come any time in this southern climate, it takes no sanitary engineer or expert to predict what is going to happen. Flies are going to breed there in enormous quantities, and typhoid fever and diphtheria are likely to break out at any time. Every one of those 40,000 men quartered in that camp will be in imminent peril of his life.
- Admiral Sherman E. Burroughs, Speech at the House of Representatives, February 22, 1918

So, she was off to Boston.

The Spanish flu had caught a second wind and was taking a heavy toll on the Northeast. Boston was hit particularly hard. Her mother resided there, as did many of her childhood colleagues. Friends. No, colleagues, she firmly reminded herself.

Dr. Maura Isles was returning home.

Hey, guys, this is my first fanfic! I loosely based Maura's life events off of a doctor in the late 1800s, early 1900s. The descriptions of the camp and speech by Admiral Burroughs actually happened and I have links for all of my sources if you are interested in checking them out. The title of this piece comes from a 1908 picture entitled, Love and Molasses, though I found little else on it. In the future there will be more dialogue. I just wanted to establish the setting and history.

Anyway, let me know what you think!