They'd met back at the clinic less than thirty minutes later, Pierre and Fernando in tow. They'd both nodded silently when Brenda had explained what they'd learned from the dying man, as one glance at his broken body, his shallow, strained breathing, told them all the same thing.

Maura had been pushing morphine into him, her hands trembling. "I don't want him to suffer," she'd murmured, her face pale and drawn, dark circles under her eyes.

"How long since either of you had a good rest?" Fernando asked gently. "It's nearly eleven."

They both shrugged.

"All are here," Pierre had said. "We are guarding the dock, we take shifts. If they are to return, we tell you fast."

Maura had thanked him, trying to suppress a yawn.

"It is better to sleep," Pierre had said. "Better to be prepared for the day than to be exhausted, make mistakes."

"Exactly. Why don't you both go get some sleep?" Fernando added, just the hint of a smirk on his face. "Maura, wouldn't it be best if you stayed here?" He looked meaningfully at Brenda, who was in the middle of a yawn of her own. "No offense, darling, but you look exhausted."

"You must stay," Pierre agreed, though his reasoning was that Maura's little cottage was too close to the marina and too far from anyone else, and he couldn't spare anyone to guard her.

"It's all right, Maura," Brenda had smiled drowsily. "I'll sleep on the couch, it's real cozy."

Maura had sighed. "Nonsense. You're hurt."

So it had taken her a second to get her bearings when, a few hours later, she'd been abruptly awoken by a harsh, frightened cry from somewhere in the dark. A high-pitched whine. A strangled, murmured Sharon.

She managed to remember where she was just before she tumbled off the side of the couch, tangled a little in the wool blanket she'd given to Brenda on the beach what felt like years ago, but, she realized with a jolt, had been less than two weeks.

She padded softly over to the bedroom, where Brenda was twisted up in the sheet, having thrashed the duvet nearly off the bed; it was dark but Maura could still make out the sheen of sweat on Brenda's skin, the way her chest rose and fell rapidly, the glittering tears pooling on her cheeks as she wept, still asleep.

Maura felt her heart tug in her chest. Recognized all too easily the pain Brenda was in. Cautiously moved to the side of the bed, cautiously soothed the sweat-damp hair from Brenda's temple, murmuring nothing in particular, just low, sweet sounds.

After a moment, Brenda's breath evened out. Her eyes opened, she sat bolt upright. "What—"

"It's all right," Maura said softly, pulling away. "You were having a bad dream. You were crying."

"Well shoot," Brenda muttered, trying to brush away any remaining tears. "I'm sorry for wakin' you, how embarrassin'."

Maura smiled faintly, sadly. "I did too, for a long time," she said quietly. "For years after she was gone."

Brenda froze like she'd been made, but eventually she nodded miserably, settled back onto the bed, cleared her throat.

"Folks have told me a little bit about her. About, uh, Jane. She sounds . . . real impressive," Brenda finished lamely. Maura smiled again.

"She was," she said. There was a long, slightly-awkward silence, and then Maura perched lightly on the edge of the mattress. "I'd like to hear about Sharon," she said, almost a whisper. "You've never talked about her. Well. Except for in your sleep."

Brenda frowned deeply, as through she were trying to physically push her feelings back down. Her brow furrowed. Maura could see the bright gloss of tears in her eyes.

"I know I haven't," Brenda said, just as quietly. "I just figured Fernando already told you . . . about that."

Maura's heart clenched as she realized Brenda hadn't said the woman's name this whole time maybe not because she was playing it close to the chest, but because it still hurt too much.

She remembered those dull gray days; rather, she remembered them all as a single day, contracted with sorrow, thick with a fog that surrounded her alone. When Jane had died, a small contingent of townspeople had set up their own caretaking rota, nobody even asking her opinion on the idea, and had come into and stayed out of her newly-lonely little house as needed, for nearly a whole summer, until Maura felt less like loss itself, and more like a person who had endured one. It had been only a first step, of course; grief was long and strange and impossible to know.

But she doubted Brenda had had that kind of love and support once her Sharon had passed. Dr. Morales, yes, but he'd been dealing with his own pain from the loss of his friend and from, she'd gathered, the loss of his own partner when he and Brenda had left Utah to see if there was anything left for them on the coast.

"It had run its course," Fernando had said with a wave of his hand, and Maura had believed him. "A few of his family survived and made it to Utah, and he wanted to stay with them, and I didn't, and Brenda certainly didn't—it was her house we were in. Sharon's. So it was adios, Jason, with my fondest regards. Honestly," he'd leaned in, "if it hadn't been the apocalypse he'd have been a three-month fling, but, well, take what you can get, I suppose."

But still, she supposed, it hadn't been as easy as all that.

And of course it hadn't hardly been any time since Brenda had made her dramatic reentry into Maura's life; days, barely a week and a half, and they'd certainly had enough to occupy them other than their respective widowhoods. And while it was true that Fernando had told her a bit about Sharon, it was obvious that he had known her longer, had considered her a close friend for years before everything, had his own memories of her. His own grief.

He'd mentioned her and Brenda's relationship, how Sharon had fallen ill and died so suddenly not even two years ago, but had refrained from getting too far into it with Maura. "She'll tell you when she's ready," he'd said. "It's not my place. I know, Maura," he groaned, seeing the skepticism on her face. "I can't believe it either. But we're all at least a little changed by now, right?"

Maura had nodded. Had felt grateful that Dr. Morales was so kind, so protective of Brenda's feelings.

"She's changed too," he said meaningfully, after a beat. "Obviously I didn't know her all those years ago, but I knew her before everything, and she's . . ."

"A different person now?"

"No," he replied firmly. "She is, and I imagine can only ever be, Brenda Leigh Johnson. But now she's . . . quieter, maybe. More thoughtful. Cautious, if that makes sense."

Maura thought of Brenda, who had once kissed her so passionately in the National Portrait Gallery that when they'd come up for air, they'd discovered a handful of unimpressed security guards who had politely encouraged them to quietly exit the building. Brenda, who had walked her right to lecherous old Dr. Jeffries's office door for her weekly consultation and then, when she knew he could see, had given her a close hug, which would have been fine, if she hadn't also licked a hot line up Maura's throat and then nipped at her chin. Brenda, whose idea of caution was looking only in the direction she wanted to go before taking off running.

Brenda, who had been able to leave her without a word. To disappear.

She thought of Brenda now, older, thinner, her eyes dark with trauma and sadness but still sparkling, the woman who had so shyly taken her hand, who had been ready to pull it away if Maura hadn't wanted her touch. Brenda, who had held her as she sobbed. Brenda, who she had kissed, who hadn't pushed her away, but hadn't pushed her forward, either. This version of Brenda did seem changed. Did seem gentler. More careful.

"I think I know exactly what you mean, Fernando," she'd murmured.

And now here Brenda was, eyes and nose red from crying, sniffling on her big white bed in the middle of the night.

"I don't really know what to say," she muttered, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her thin, sweat-dampened hoodie.

Maura stood up, went into the kitchen. Brought back a glass of water and a soft, clean dish towel.

"Thank you," Brenda said, her voice small, a little bruised. She fell silent again, but shifted over just slightly on the bed, and Maura carefully eased herself down next to her, legs folded away, hands folded in her lap.

"When I was in the CIA," she said, her voice still small, but stronger, "I thought I had the worst nightmares a person could have. And then I became a homicide detective, and I learned I was wrong." She took a sip of the water. Maura looked at her softly, kindly, waited for her to speak again. "And then the—the bad thing happened, and I thought nothin' could ever be as bad as those dreams. And then she—Sharon—she got sick, and it was real fast, only a couple weeks, and it was almost peaceful and she didn't suffer and I know that's a lot more than most people got but then suddenly she was just gone. And I still have these dreams, y'know? And the thing is they ain't even bad dreams, they're real nice dreams, but even then I know—I know she's gone, even in the dream, and sometimes it feels like nothin' could possibly hurt worse."

She stopped abruptly, clapped her hand over her mouth, looked at Maura with wide eyes.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't mean to—"

Maura reached out and slid her hand under Brenda's, not interlacing their fingers, just cupping Brenda's palm gently.

"Please don't apologize, Brenda Leigh," she whispered. "You loved her. It hurts."

Brenda nodded miserably.

"I'm so sorry," Maura said. "I'm so sorry, honey. It's so hard, I know." Brenda let out another soft hiccuping sob. "You don't have to apologize for being in pain," Maura murmured. "It's all right." She soothed the side of Brenda's hand with her thumb.

After a moment, she felt the mattress shift as Brenda turned, inched over, curled up into a tiny ball, pressed against her, shaking a little.

"Oh sweetheart," she said softly, pulling Brenda closer, wrapping her arms carefully around her, cradling Brenda's face to her neck the same way Brenda had cradled her. "It's all right. I've got you."

It should feel stranger, she thought, to be sitting on a bed comforting the woman who had broken her heart half a lifetime ago about the loss of some other love, but it didn't feel particularly strange at all. Yes, there had been the initial shock, the initial rawness and hurt, but they'd both been through so much. They'd both seen and done so much and they were, incredibly, here, now, together; it felt foolish and silly to throw this impossible moment away, to refuse it because of some long-healed wound.

They both also understood this particular kind of pain and longing; something different, deeper than the pain of Brenda's abrupt departure from her little DC apartment. This time, they shared the grief of knowing exactly what had been lost; that it would never return. Jane was gone. Sharon, too. Both of them, forever.

"I've got you," Maura whispered again, her lips resting on the crown of Brenda's head. "It's all right."

"The thing is we just couldn't stand each other when we met." Brenda's voice was watery, though a little stronger, but she kept her head tucked against Maura's neck. "We drove each other crazy. Professionally, I mean. But then after it was just her and me and Fernando for all that time, well, I guess you start wonderin' why it is you hated each other so much right from the start."

"Mm-hmm," Maura murmured.

"When it, y'know, happened, me and Dr. Morales and Sharon—Captain Raydor—were down in the morgue, which I guess turned out to be a good thing—"

Maura burst out laughing. She couldn't help it. Brenda looked up at her, bewildered.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that's exactly how Jane and I and our friend Detective Frost survived."

Brenda offered a crinkled grin against her throat. "What a world," she drawled. And then, after a moment, "she reminded me of you, a little, or maybe you remind me of her, now. Maybe both."

Maura smiled. "In what way?"

"Just like that," Brenda said. "Neither of you could ever just say 'how come,' it's always 'oh, in what way?'"

"Hmm," Maura replied, but her smile widened a little.

"And y'all both mastered that infuriatin' little 'hmm," Brenda groused, but she smiled, too. "She was real put together too. Always had fancy designer clothes and shoes I couldn't imagine wearin', let alone affordin'. She had long, pretty hair, and these clear green eyes that could burn a hole right through you. And she was one of the smartest, most honorable, most compassionate people I reckon musta ever lived." She sniffled again, but she'd stopped crying. Relaxed against Maura. Laced her fingers through Maura's.

"I feel like this shouldn't be so comfortable," Brenda said softly, after a beat. "Me talkin' about Sharon like this. I'm sorry if it's awkward."

"What did I just say about apologizing?" Maura sighed. "And it's not awkward, though I do know what you mean. I'd had a similar thought myself."

"Hmm," Brenda said, and squeezed her hand lightly. Traced her thumb over Maura's palm.

They sat like that for a few minutes, Maura feeling Brenda's breath and body softening next to her, sliding back toward sleep. "I'll let you get some rest," she whispered, moving to stand.

"Would you stay here with me?" Brenda's voice tiny, shy, nervous.

"I—"

"It's all right," Brenda said quickly, sounding suddenly awake, flushed with embarrassment.

"No," Maura said. "No, it's fine. I—I'd like to stay. With you."

"I figure we could both use some comfortin'." Maura couldn't see her face clearly in the nearly-dark room, but she sounded relieved, if not still a little nervous.

"Hmm," Maura said again, a little nervous too.

"You were sleepin' in your clothes?" Brenda said, noticing. Maura shrugged. "Well, there's some things that'll work as pajamas in the wardrobe, but I suppose you know that already."

Maura gave a wry little smile as she moved to the cabinet, pulled out some shorts, a t-shirt. Ducked into the bathroom without turning the light on. She didn't want to spoil this soft moment with a harsh look at herself in the mirror; instead she quickly washed her hands and face, changed into the pajamas. She'd already brushed her teeth downstairs with the toothbrush she kept in her office.

She braced her hands on the sink and took a deep breath before quietly slipping back into the bedroom, where Brenda was already a lump under the covers. Took another deep breath as she turned back the duvet and slipped into the bed.

Brenda murmured wordlessly, half-asleep, but her hand found Maura's under the blanket. Laced their fingers together again.

Maura felt her heart beat faster, even through the sudden fog of exhaustion that had abruptly descended on her, as the mattress shifted again, and then Brenda was facing her, her hand releasing Maura's and slowly, dreamily drifting up to cup her face. "Thank you," Brenda mumbled, her voice thick.

Maura couldn't help but burrow just slightly into Brenda's touch, felt herself moving just slightly closer to that warm body.

They were so close that their foreheads were touching.

"Thank you," Brenda whispered again, then gently guided Maura's face to hers, gently pressed their lips together.

Maura didn't pull away, but she didn't move forward, just let herself feel the warm softness of Brenda's mouth against hers, the light brush of Brenda's slow, even breath against her skin. She should move away, she thought; it was one thing to share your pain and comfort someone, quite another to fall asleep like this, cheek cradled in their hand, lips brushing sweetly together.

But, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, still kissing Brenda, maybe this other thing could be all right, too.