I hope you enjoy this. This will be my last new thing for the year.

So, Happy New Year's.

PS. Anything in bold italics is a flashback of Maura's

Grief is defined as the multi-faceted response to loss, particularly to the loss of someone or something to which a bond was formed. According to the Kübler-Ross model, there are five stages of grief. Five emotions that every person experiences after suffering a catastrophic loss, one comparable to the death of a family member.

First, comes denial, a defense mechanism in which the person resists accepting the truth despite evidence supporting it. It was first suggested by Sigmund Freud.

No, this can't be happening.

In time, the grief-stricken understand that the denial can no longer continue, at which point they become angry.

"Don't you dare touch him."

"Maura, I—"

"No, Jane, you killed him. You killed MY FATHER!" I yelled at her. "And you killed my only chance to find out who I came from. So, go, leave, so I don't have to see your face, the face of a cold-blooded killer," I spat. Jane got up, visibly holding back her tears, and as she walked away, a quiet sob escaped her lips.

"Doc, she was only doing her job."

"No, Detective, she was just catching a perp. He was not even pointing a gun at her. He was already wounded. She just wanted to finish the job."

This is followed by the bargaining stage, during which the person desperately tries to postpone death or in some cases, hopes to revive the dead.

"No, Dad. Please, don't die. Tell me her name, please. Just don't die."

Then, depression, during which the truth sets in and one grieves over their loss.

I took some time off from work and cut myself off from the outside world completely. After deciding that staying home and drinking was not doing to help anyone, I decided to stay with my mother in the hospital. "Maura, darling, what's wrong? Why aren't you at work?"

"Everything's fine, Mom. I just wanted to be with you."

"Maura Isles, look at me. I am your mother; I know when something is wrong. Tell me."

"Jane did something, something horrible."

"Sweetie, she is your best friend. What could she have done to make you so full of hatred?"

"She killed someone."

"Was it someone close?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

I sighed. "Patrick… She killed my father." My mother looked shocked.

"You knew?" she asked bewildered.

"Yes, I found out last year. I did the autopsy on his son, Colin." After that, I explained the entire situation to her in the hope that she would side with me.

"Maura, sweetie, I want you to listen to what I am about to say."

"Ok."

"The thing you have to understand is that Jane is a police officer and in that moment when she saw Patrick point a gun at her, her instincts took over. Her choice was not conscious, it was one of self-preservation. You need to see it from her side. Now, let me ask you this: Did she look remorseful about her actions when she ran over to you?"

I sighed and replied, with a simple "Yes."

And, finally, acceptance, at which point, the grief-stricken come to terms with mortality and understand that there is no changing what has happened.

"What else did her face tell you?"

"She looked shocked, horrified, guilty, and ashamed."

"Is that the face of a cold-blooded killer, dear?"

I looked down at my lap and said, "No." It was at that moment that I realized that Jane was not the evil human being that I was trying to convince myself, she was.

Sometimes going through these stages takes moments, sometimes it doesn't. Jane never did come to the funeral, maybe she didn't want to, or maybe she couldn't. When I got home, I found a letter on my doormat. It only said Maura on the front in familiar handwriting. Resisting the urge to tear it up, I opened the envelope and inside was a note.

Dear Maura,

If you tear this letter into little pieces, I will completely understand, but if you don't, please just read it, I beg you. Maura, I am so so so very sorry about what I did, but saying sorry will never fix what I have broken or get your father back or remove the blame, my blame in all of this. I just want you to know that I am filled with so much regret about the fact that I let my instincts take over, and mostly, I am so ashamed and I feel eternally guilty. Maura, you are my best friend, but most of all, you are family. So, in a desperate attempt to try to get us back on at least speaking terms, I am begging for you to forgive me or at least try to start. Please.

Jane

I must have stared at that letter forever before realizing that Jane is truly sorry. I grabbed my keys and drove to the one place I knew I needed to start with. I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. After a few minutes of knocking and still no answer, I used my key to open the door and I called out, "Jane?" When no one answered, I walked in and looked around, when I saw a figure in Jane's bed. "Jane?" I asked as I neared the bed, fearing the worst. So when Jane stirred, I was relieved and at the same time, I wasn't because it meant that I would actually have to go through with this.

"Maura?" she groaned. Jane looked like she had been drinking quite a bit in the recent days. Her eyes were sunken and so pained. She was crying. But when her eyes met mine, I saw the faintest glimmer of hope in them; hope that everything would be ok.

"Yes. It's me."

"You got the letter," Jane half-stated.

"Yes and Jane, I think I forgive you, at least a little bit." She sat up.

"You do?"

"A little. We still have a long way to go, though."

"I understand," she said sadly.

"But, I do understand that you were just reacting to the threat of a gun being pointed at you."

"Thank you," Jane smiled. "I am incredibly sorry; I just want you to know that."

"I know."

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