The gurgling cries of the baby boy filled the still darkness, rousing Maura from her slumber. She groaned. It was Jane's turn.

Mere weeks into caring for the small infant, Maura realized she was inept to care for the child alone, even though Angela did help during the day. But the night was a different story. Mama Rizzoli offered to take watch, but that still meant Maura was to wake. The hours of sleep slowly diminished and the maternal hormones ran wild through her blood. The medical examiner had even began lactating, a rare phenomenon called Galactorrhea; she had read about this before. She adored the child, she loved the child, but she couldn't do this alone.

It was a fateful night a week ago. The painful cries of the colic infant woke Maura from a thin veil of sleep. She rose from her bed and pulled the small bundle from his cradle. She rested in the rocking chair, patting him, humming a sweet lullaby.

"Please go to sleep," she hushed. But his cries only grew louder. "Why are you sad?" She asked sweetly, rocking to and fro. Still, he cried. "Please, little one," her voice broke. "Why are you crying?" Tears welled in her eyes.

He hiccupped and quieted.

She placed him back in the crib and sighed in relief.

He began to cry again.

Maura wept.

"Maura?" Jane asked, voice sleep laden.

"I can't do this, Jane," she sobbed in the phone.

"What?" Jane asked concernedly. She could hear the small child crying in the background.

"He won't stop crying," she sniveled.

That was the last night Jane slept in her apartment, the second to last day she slept on a couch, the third to last day she'd sleep alone.