Maura drove up to Jane's apartment and parked the car, noting dispassionately that the light to the front room was still on. Maybe that meant something and maybe it didn't. She had been fooled by lights before. Often, in fact. Sometimes she was just sure Jane was awake and home, but there was no answer. Other times, the lights were off when she knocked, heard Jane mumbling something from behind the door about being tired, but Jane never came to the door. Sometimes she even saw the outline of Jane's head and shoulders sticking up above the couch, or her tall torso moving slowly and sluggishly above the kitchen counter, but had received no answer to her knocking and calling.
It was happening again tonight.
Maura knocked off and on for several minutes, then tried the doorbell for several more. Her phone calls had gone unanswered, but she tried again just to be sure, and left a message this time. "Jane? It's Maura. Again. Look, if you're upset with me, I want to understand why. It's just that I think there's something wrong, and I want to help. Please open the door. I want to see your face and know that you're okay. Even if you only open the door to tell me to go away, I'll try to accept that."
She hung up the phone and knocked again, then tried the doorbell. It wasn't going to work, she decided, and dug in her purse for Jane's key, the one given to her for emergencies. In her worry, the caramel-blonde's fingers became clumsy, and she dropped the keys on the doorstep with a loud jangle. "Drat," she swore mildly, and tried again. The lock clicked; the door slid open until the deadbolt snapped, alerting Maura to the fact that the door would not budge any further than the few inches it had already opened – not even enough space to let Joe Friday out. "Jane?" she called in a soft voice, already laced with worry. "Jane, I know you're there. This latch can't be fastened from outside. Let me in."
Silence met her request, however, just as it had the night before, and the night before that. Just as on those other nights, the honey-brunette had remained outside her best friend's apartment, disturbing the peace until a neighbor came outside to inform her that twenty minutes of pleading should probably be the limit on how long anyone should have to listen to someone talking to a closed door.
Hazel eyes filled with tears as her voice weakened from attempted cheerfulness to overt concern, scolding to sniffling. Maura checked the windows in the front, then circled around the back of the building to see if Jane had forgotten to secure the back door. Well, at least she's not leaving herself open to burglary, thought the medical examiner briefly and bitterly as she fumbled for her cell phone, scrolling down the list of their mutual friends as she contemplated which one to rouse from sleep, whom to force into worrying with her. Angela? She would come immediately, then work herself into a useless state of worry, much like Maura's own. Frank had been incommunicado for weeks. Definitely not Tommy; he would spot the problem and even know how to handle it, but Jane would be so ashamed at having followed her younger brother down this path that nothing productive would come of it.
Frankie was problematic, too. He wouldn't be able to keep anything from the Rizzoli parents, and was also connected to Jane's professional life, so the news of Jane's drinking would eventually get around the station. That was also why Maura could not choose Vince Korsak or Barry Frost, despite the fact that either one would have a better chance at getting through to Jane where Maura couldn't. Still, Maura's finger hovered over Barry's name. As her current partner, surely it was his duty and privilege, more than anyone else's save Maura herself, to help Jane?
Maura shut off the phone with a sigh, knowing she would not call anyone, would not entrust to any of them the embarrassment she knew her best friend would feel at having her new hobby exposed before a coworker or a family member. Jane would lose respect from Barry or Vince, and she would lose so much more from the family members that had already dealt with the many woes that Tommy Rizzoli had brought onto them in years and months past.
The petite woman went back to sit in her car until her lachrymal glands stopped overproducing long enough to let her drive home, disappointed and worried. She showered, dressed for bed, poured herself a glass of her cheapest and least-favorite wine, took one sip, and stared at the remainder until she grew disgusted, poured it out, and went to bed.