3am.
The knocking was persistent. Jane Rizzoli looked up and blearily tried to focus on her watch. Who the hell could that be?
Muttering oaths to herself, she slid off the couch, cursing as her toe slammed against the hard edge of a couch leg. "I'm coming," she yelled angrily, as the knocking grew louder. "I'm coming, for chrissakes."
She threw on the light in her living room, wincing as she did so, not just because of the brightness. In the harsh light, she saw only too clearly the mess. Bottles were strewn haphazardly around the place; mostly beer, but also bourbon that she had recently discovered worked quicker for her.
Jane had never been a big drinker; even after Hoyt a few beers were all she sought. But now... Now she didn't see the point of self-restraint. Everything had gone to shit. So she drank. At least booze had calories. She couldn't remember when she had last kept a meal down. She had tried, she really had. But the last few days had been a killer, making an already unbearable situation even worse. A 39-hour stakeout, in rain that had turned to merciless sleet, did not chime well with an empty stomach – and an empty soul. And the migraine that had started up before she had even gotten home pounded viciously, feeling like an iron rod in her left eye, sending wave after wave of nausea roiling through her. At least it had stopped her drinking when she had gotten home. She realized, to her shame, that it had been the first time in nearly a month that she had gone to bed sober. And that was only because she was sick. All this, and more, ran through Jane Rizzoli's tortured brain as she stumbled to the door.
As she peered through the peephole, she was assaulted by sudden, brutal dizziness and her vision narrowed alarmingly. She grabbed blindly at the door handle to steady herself, hanging on for dear life as she lowered her head between her knees in a desperate attempt to remain conscious.
"Jane?" soft tones floated through the door. "Let me in, Jane."
Jane moaned as her legs buckled and she slid to the ground. This couldn't be real. But it sounded so real. She sounded so real.
Jane had not seen Maura for almost a month. Not since that fateful night. That night when she had let her down in the worst possible way. Cop's instinct, Jane thought bitterly. That's what it was. She saw danger, and she acted. It was ironic really; in a desperate attempt to ensure Maura's safety, she had alienated her for life. Of course, she knew deep down that Doyle would never have hurt Maura, but she had seen his gun and she had acted. Impulsively. She had killed the one link Maura had to her birth mother. Thanks to her, Maura would never know who her real mother was.
Jane didn't hear the key in the lock, and was only dimly aware of the door pushing against her prone form. She barely registered soft hands on her face, followed by a cool cloth on her forehead. She was so hot, she could barely breathe.
Before Jane knew what was happening, she was sitting up, a warm blanket around her shoulders. A cup of cool water appeared before her, and she sipped gingerly. She felt cold now, a deep, bone-chilling cold that permeated her every pore. She tried to open her eyes, but it hurt. "Keep them shut," a soft voice spoke. She knew that voice. She knew now that she was hallucinating. It would make sense; it must be a fever. She must be delirious. "You have a high fever," words broke through her thoughts. She felt almost smug for a moment. So she was right.
A strong arm slipped round her waist, and her own arm was pulled round small shoulders. Before she realized it, she was on her feet. She didn't think she could walk, but somehow the next thing she was aware of was being in bed, and covers being pulled up.
Jane hadn't slept in her bed for weeks. Not since the shooting. In recent weeks, she had preferred the oblivion of booze, and it was just easier to stay on the couch. Also, on the one time she had tried and had lain down in the bed, she could still smell Maura's grapefruit shampoo on the pillow. Maura. Her best friend and, for the three weeks before she had so spectacularly fucked up, her lover. Maura, the most beautiful, quirky, sexy woman she had ever met. Maura, who would never speak to her again.
The pain in her head was overwhelming, but somehow that was obvious to her nursemaid. Jane kept her eyes shut, partly to shut out the pain, and partly so that she could convince herself that it was Maura taking care of her. Maura who fetched the extra blankets from the closet. Maura who held the cool, wet cloth to her fevered brow. Maura who held her when her stomach erupted, sending shockwaves of pain through her head and her spine. Maura who had alternately pulled down the sheets and bathed her to bring down her soaring temperature, and then wrapped her in blankets when the iced water had started to work.
If she had been able to think, Jane would have wondered who it was who was soothing her that terrible night. Somebody was there. Somebody cared enough to sit with her during those endless hours, gentling her back, wiping her brow, supporting her through seemingly endless bouts of projectile vomiting as her abused stomach lurched painfully, again and again and again.
It was early evening the next day when Jane's fever finally started to fall. Someone lifted her head off the pillow and held a straw to her lips. "You have to drink," the voice said. The voice was Maura's. But, Jane reasoned, everything she imagined was Maura. "You're badly dehydrated. This will help."
Jane felt soft hands on her face as she lay down again, the darkness closing over her. The sleep which had eluded her for so many weeks, and which her body so desperately craved, finally came. She convinced herself that the gentle hand tangling in her hair was Maura's.
Jane dreamt that she woke sporadically, and that Maura's elegant hands held her, tempted her to drink, and soothed her back to sleep. Maura, who she knew would never speak to her again. She woke, gasping, but was met with a soft embrace, a cool hand on her brow and neck, and clear, iced water. She slept again. For nearly 30 hours, Jane Rizzoli remained in a fugue state, knowing that she was hallucinating her caregiver, but not caring that she was. Any moment with Maura, whether real or imaginary, made life worth living. For without Maura, all was blank, empty, pointless.
Jane's head finally eased, and she drifted off into a healing sleep. When she next woke, sun was trying to break through the bedroom drapes. She was alone. She sighed, resigning herself to her solitude. She would have to get used to it. Jo Friday nudged at her hand as it trailed off the bed. "Hey, Jo," she said, surprised to hear the croak in her voice.
Jane sat up carefully, and blinked. Slowly, she got to her feet. She wavered, but felt proud of herself when she managed to stay upright. She went to the bathroom to pee, and it was only as she was washing her hands afterwards that she noticed the plastic basin by the sink, clean, with a damp washcloth folded over the side. She had never folded a washcloth in her life.
Jane made her way slowly to the living room. Where were all the bottles? The apartment was spotless. She opened her fridge to get a bottle of water, noticing that it was stocked with all manner of goodies, including chicken noodle soup. Maura's favorite brand of chicken noodle soup.
Maura Isles let herself into her own house, her heart heavy. She loved Jane Rizzoli. With all her heart. She just couldn't forgive her. Nor, she realized, could she live without her.