Author Note: I wrote this a while ago for wolvesjr34, and apparently I completely forgot that I didn't post it. So here it is. It's the most angsty an angsty fic can probably get, I think. It's just a one-shot, so there won't be any more.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rizzoli and Isles, I just do horrible things to them in my head (but only because I love them so much).
Warning: This story contains suicide and death.
The world slowed right down until it almost stopped. Jane Rizzoli stood with her smoking gun in hand, her eyes staring into the open, lifeless eyes of Maura Isles.
She didn't move.
The gun weighted her down but she couldn't let go of the weapon. An overwhelming feeling slowly spread through her body; a hatred settled in the pit of her stomach, emanating outwards until her whole body felt like it was on fire. Still she stood there, staring into the darkened pupils of her best friend.
"Maura," Korsak shouted, his voice trailed off into the distance as Jane watched him move towards the body.
All hope was already lost.
Another officer stepped forwards, grasping the arm of the man Jane had aimed for. Paddy Doyle's eyes glistened. For the first time in the years she'd spent hunting him down, he looked defeated.
It should have been him.
The officer fought with the older man, smacking him a little too hard across the face until Doyle relented.
"I'm sorry," Korsak said, shaking his low head, he ran his fingers across Maura's face, closing her eyelids. His eyes lifted to Jane's.
The force with which he stared at her pulled her attention away long enough for the reality of what had happened to settle into the pit of her stomach
Jane dropped the gun.
Her whole body convulsed violently until the contents of her stomach landed on the ground in front of her, over and over again until she heaved against nothing.
"No," she whispered, gasping for breath.
She placed her hands on her knees and struggled to bring oxygen into her lungs long enough to continue the cycle of life. She dropped to the ground, her chest rising and falling at a speed she'd never felt before. Her left knee soaked through with vomit. Jane placed both hands on the floor in front of her, staring at the concrete below her. The desire to curl into a tiny ball overwhelmed her.
"Come on," Korsak said, slipping a hand around her arm and pulling her to her feet. She pushed his hand away when she stood upright, the tickling sensation that came with sickness barely dissipated. Korsak reached out again.
"Get your fucking hands off me," she shouted, her shoulders hunched as great, silent, gasping sobs escaped her.
"It's not your fault," Korsak said, kneeling on the ground beside where Jane had fallen once more. She wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled her body tightly together. "Nobody knew she was going to get in the way."
She couldn't find the words. She could barely process thoughts. All that Jane knew was that Maura was dead; killed, not by a deranged killer, or her murderous father, but by her best friend.
After a period of time that felt neither long, nor short, Jane walked the few steps to a car waiting beside her in the street. A strong arm held her steady. On the car ride she could see the world flying by, but if anyone was to ask her which streets they'd taken, or what she'd seen along the way, she wouldn't have been able to tell them.
"We didn't know what else to do, except call the hospital," Korsak said, his voice trailed through the homicide unit.
Jane sat at her desk. The room blurred against her peripheral vision. Her near-sight didn't appear to be working very well.
"Janie," Angela said, her voice came out small and weak, laced heavily with the tears that Jane knew she should be crying.
She allowed her mother to wrap her up in a hug, but still she couldn't pull her mind out of the prison she'd created for herself; an empty space blocking the path between her insular mind and the world outside.
Another car ride, another arm around her waist, another glass of something pushed in front of her until she drank every last drop. She sat down on the couch in Maura's guest house, the guest house she never set foot in because despite her mother living there; she had no reason to vacate the main house. She didn't know what would happen to the house now.
"This isn't your fault," Angela said, cupping Jane's hand and kissing it several times. She could feel the damp press of her lips against the palm of her hand; a sensation that barely pierced her bubble.
When her mother wrapped a blanket around her and told her to sleep, Jane lay awake on the bed, staring into the darkness. Her eyes barely slipped away from the blank wall beside her. She stared so hard that her eyes ached and the flaws in the paint became something so familiar she could have passed a quiz on the subject.
"You really need to get some rest," Angela said, the clock had slipped past three but Jane's eyelids barely drooped. A heavy weight pulled them down but something forced them open again before she could give in.
An hour later and Angela was snoring on the couch.
In the darkness, Jane's eyes adapted to the unfamiliar shape of a lamp, a table, a pile of romantic novels. Jane watched a shadow formed by a lamp. The slender rod, bulky at one end, appeared more like a hand gun than a fancy light fixture.
Jane closed her eyes momentarily; a gunshot pulled her awake, the shadow shifted from a dark patch on the wall to a real weapon sitting comfortably in her hands. She saw Maura before she pressed the trigger, she watched her cross the road in front of Doyle, and yet somehow, for some reason, Jane's finger still gripped hard and pressed down against the most dangerous part of the gun.
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
Three shots.
One after the other landed square in Maura's torso. The kill shot designed for her murderous father found its home in the doctor's chest.
As the sun came up, Jane's lungs ached and her heart beat so fast she thought she was going to die there and then. Almighty sobs escaped her lips, guttural gasps for breath and sanity filled any silence, and Jane's eyes flowed a river.
Eight hours is a long time in homicide. The world can turn on a dime, and Jane knew that more than most. She'd faced hardened criminals, men and woman who opted to murder their relatives just to get hold of the family's fortune, and teenagers who made a mistake too serious to ignore.
She'd shot and killed countless people; people trying to escape capture, people using hostages as shields, people hoping that firing first would guarantee them a quick getaway.
She'd never shot a friend before.
She'd never shot someone she loved.
She clutched the blanket wrapped around her body and pushed her face into the material. The comforting feel of her mother's scent filled her with warmth that should have been enough to pull her out of the emotional wreck that the day's events had become.
She pushed the blanket away, strode across the room and out the door towards the main house. She forced the door open with her shoulder, splintering the wooden frame. She took the stairs two at a time, pulled open the closet door of the master bedroom, and went straight to a box in the back. To the gun she'd bought Maura the year before in the hope it would help protect her if she couldn't be there, sat comfortably in her hand.
She loaded the pistol with a single bullet.
Pulled off the safety.
Placed the gun to her temple.
And fired.