AN: Alright, y'all, so you know how much I adore reading all of your reviews and what not. But, just remember that this is fiction (fan, though it may be). Let's try and reign in the hate a little bit, maybe? Constructive criticism perhaps? I'm trying to do justice to the characters and the storyline as much as I can, and the road is tough going, but I think you'll see that we'll get there in the end. Don't give up. Thank you sososo much for reading. Love.

Disclaimer: I don't own Rizzoli & Isles. All characters belong to Tess Garritsen and Janet Tamaro.

"You should get out for awhile. Get some fresh air. Take a walk."

"I'm not leaving her, Ma."

"Janie. It isn't good for you to be cooped up in this place. Just go. Just for a bit. You're no good to her if you can't even take care of yourself."

She sighed, running a hand down her face. "Maybe later. Alright? Later. I promise. After she wakes up."

There is a rhythm to a hospital, she's come to realize. A bustle and a hum that never quits, that circles with the hands of the clock around and around, from sun-up to sun-down. The nights are quieter, but possess a pattern all their own. Hushed voices. The squeak of a lone pair of shoes making their way down the linoleum hallway. The flickering of the one dying, fluorescent light bulb in the corner, struggling vainly not to go dark. And she has become a part of that world now, sliding almost seamlessly into the fabric, stitched into place as though the spot had been saved for her specially.

"An infection?"

"A strain of influenza."

"The flu? She has the flu?"

"Chemotherapy doesn't just attack the bad stuff, Jane. It kills everything."

"Poison. You've been dumping poison into her body for months."

"Her immune system has been compromised, weakened to the point where it can no longer fight off the most basic attacks."

"So…"

"We'll give her antibiotics for now. As well as fluids of course."

"And the chemo?"

"It's a waiting game at this point."

The nurses all know her on sight now. It only took them a week. Only a week. When did seven days come to seem short? When did she start breaking each day down into twelve hour shifts? Sometime between the third night and the fourth perhaps.

But they know her now, and they smile at her. Quickly and silently as they hurry past for five am rounds. They are professionals. All of them. Except sometimes they give her softer smiles as she meanders around the wing, up and down and up and down until she could provide BPD with a perfect description of each individual floor tile. On her third trip by the nurses' station, there will often be a cup of coffee, steam dissipating into the sterilized air, hot and black, sitting there, waiting for her. They know who she is now. They know her name. They know her route. They know the way she takes her coffee. They are becoming her family.

"Maybe we should consider calling someone in."

"Richard."

"I know Bill Jarvis over at Mayo, I'm sure he'd be willing to fly in…"

"Ryan's good," she cuts in. Then she looks down at her shoes, embarrassed. "Sorry," it isn't her place.

"You're fine, dear," she isn't sure when Constance stopped calling her detective, skipped completely over her actual name, and began to call her dear. It makes her feel like she's five years old again. "And you're absolutely right."

"Connie-"

"No. Richard, you know Dr. Wilde has already been consulting with Dr. Jarvis and Dr. Saroyen from the Cleveland Clinic. We just need to be patient. We need to have faith."

He frowned, but turned away.

"Darling," it may have made her feel like a child, but it also made her feel like a well-loved child, a child whose mother was worried about her well-being. It made her feel warm inside. Gooey. "You should go home tonight. Get some rest."

"I can't. I just, I can't leave her."

"Just a few hours then. Eat some real food. Take a shower. Go for a run."

"I'm sorry, Constance. I really am. But, I can't."

"Alright. Alright, dear. That's okay."

She forgets sometimes that there exist other floors in this massive place, that if she takes the stairs up two floors, she'll be on a ward decorated with bears and monkeys, where little kids with shaved heads and iv bags trailing them like lost puppies grin at her from a playroom full of puzzles and board games. She'd gotten lost there one afternoon, watching a boy and his little sister try to fit together pieces whose edges just didn't seem to match. She'd crossed her arms across her chest and leaned back against the wall and watched them bicker over which one went where. In the end, a nurse and a frazzled looking woman with tear tracks permanently scarred across her hollow cheeks had come to collect them, and the puzzle had been left behind, half-completed, already forgotten.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah," she rubs the crick out of her neck, sliding to sit up straighter in the chair and licking her lips. "Yeah. What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd swing by for a few minutes. Just finished my shift."

"All good?"

"All good. They sure do miss you both over there though. Frost is getting a little fed up with Korsak, I think."

She aimed for a fond smile, but the corners slipped.

"Hey, you know they'd love it if you stopped by."

"Yeah…"

"Just for a few minutes maybe."

"I'll have to see when I can get away."

Silence for several moments. Comfortable though.

"Want me to get you something to eat from downstairs? Or I could run out and get something. You look like you could use a burger," he punches her gently on the shoulder.

"Maybe later. But thanks, brother."

"Anytime."

The large window overlooks a closed-in courtyard. There's a four-inch layer of snow that covers its puny trees and few metal benches. The surface of the snow is lumpy and disturbed by the multiple sets of footprints criss-crossing its white expanse. One of the benches has been cleared off, and there's a man who occupies it every morning from seven until eight. He's praying, she knows. She wonders who he's praying for. Someone he loves, someone he'd change places with in a heartbeat. She peers out from behind the curtain, three floors above him, and although she has spent most of her adult life ignoring her mother's God, she prays with this man each morning. She prays for him, and she prays that his prayers are answered. Because everyone with that much pain weighing on their shoulders deserves a little extra help. It's become her morning ritual. She prays for the man on the bench, until one morning he doesn't show up, and so she is forced to pray alone.

"These weird messages!"

"What's that, Janie?"

"Nothing. I've just been getting these creepy texts from some guy whose wife must have a similar number or something. It's getting annoying."

"Tell him he's got it wrong."

"I have been! But he must not get the picture. Like, 'Hon, don't forget to pick up the drycleaning!' Idiot," she mumbled under her breath, hitting the silent button and sticking the device away.

She never knew before that there was a medical code, an entire language only used by hospital staff. She thinks she might be becoming fluent, and it is a terrifying thought. There's the 3 am code for, "I'm taking a cigarette break." The, "This patient is crazy." Or, "Doctor Smith. That man has no soul." The, "Can you take my shift next weekend? Jimmy's got to work and the kids have got a birthday party." The, "My feet are killing me." She's managed to decode nearly every different one.

Now, she's begun to work on their silent language, because that is the one where they actually communicate the big stuff, the important things to one another. Any old patient can learn to interpret the words they use, but it takes a finely trained professional such as herself to learn the seventeen different ways a nurse can raise her eyebrow or tap her foot. She's taking a sick sense of pleasure in learning. They know what she's doing of course; she has never been subtle, but they let her continue, with pats on the arm for encouragement and a toss of the head as though to decry her ambition as foolish. Many have tried, few have succeeded. But, she won't go down without a fight.

"Hey there pretty girl."

"Mm. Jay. Water?"

"Right here. Your fever's gone down. That's good. Ryan said he'll stop by later this afternoon to check in again. And Ann was here."

"Oh she was?"

"Mmhmm. She said I was supposed to tell you to stop playing the baby and get your butt out of bed."

"She said ass, didn't she?"

"Perhaps," she purses her lips in fake consternation, but she can't help but grin when the other woman laughs.

"She's wonderful."

"She is. As are you. 'Nother sip?"

"Please."

It is cloudy outside nearly everyday. Even if she were outside, she isn't sure she'd remember the feel of the sun, hot and brilliant on her skin. Winter has settled itself firmly upon the city, and will not relinquish its hold until March. Life goes on however, and what constitutes her new normal continues as it has for decades, as it did before she came along, and as it will even after she leaves via two sliding glass doors. There is only one season within these pale green walls. One single, 365.25-day season that is on a constant, repetitive cycle. Autumn has lost all meaning. Spring is only a dream. And summer sounds like foreign things, fairytales and fantasy lands. Even winter feels far away.

"Merry Christmas, Ma. Umph, Tommy."

"Merry Christmas, Janie!"

"Thanks, brother." She accepts Frankie's slap on the back, "Merry Christmas."

"We thought we might bring a little holiday cheer," her youngest brother holds up the fake tree decorated with a tiny string of white lights, a golden star bending down its uppermost branches.

"Oh, Tommy," her voice is breathy in delight.

"Yeah, you like it?" he approaches the bed so she can see from up close.

"But it's the 30th…"

"Who cares," Angela declares. "Christmas is a forever holiday." Jane has never loved her mother more than she does in that moment.

"And we've got presents," Frankie entices, indicating the two overflowing bags in his hands.

"Let's get this party started," the matriarch announces. "Richard and Constance should be up in just a minute. They were right behind us."

Her face glows while she watches her family bustling around her, setting up for a missed holiday, the room loud and pleasantly warm, and for a moment she remembers what winter can feel like: joyous and free even as the world sleeps.

She lives off of two day old pudding and bruised apples. And she wonders how they do it, those people that she passes in the halls, shuffling along in slippers and robes, their faces empty, turned inward to some life she is not privy to. She wonders how anyone is supposed to survive in this giant brick maze if all they live on is a steady diet of chemicals, hand sanitizer, and gravy and mashed potatoes that look like they came straight out of her grandmother's refrigerator a month after Easter.

"Jay."

"Hmm?"

"Why haven't you left yet?"

"Left?"

"That chair cannot be comfortable. Go home. Check on Bass and Jo Friday."

"The pets are fine. My mother has that well under control."

"Sleep in our bed. Take a long, relaxing bath. You look like a ragamuffin, Jane. You haven't properly washed your hair in days."

"Well, thank you, dear. You always know just what to say."

She leans into the hand on her cheek. "You know what I mean," she reprimands.

"I do. But I also know that it's not our bed without you in it, Maur."

You never thought anyone could make yellow paper gowns and blue masks look flattering, but you've got to admit that you can definitely pull it off. You've gotten used to the funny attire that makes your family members look like aliens. Even Constance Isles looks a bit less dignified in the getup. The nurses smirk at you when you appear in the hallway, more like some dyed smurf than a human being. You aren't sad to see the gowns go after the first week. Not sad at all, although they did make her smile, so perhaps it's with a bittersweet heart that you enter her room the first day you can wearing normal clothes again. The masks remain.

"It didn't work? Not even at all?"

"The tumor is the same size. In fact, i-it's grown."

"Grown," she gulps.

"By how much?" Ever the pragmatist.

"3 millimeters." The apologetic look on his face is enough to say that this could be 3000 millimeters for all the difference it would make.

"I see."

"What? What do you see?"

They're looking at each other and she wishes to God she'd managed to decode the nurse speak by now. Except this is a different dialect entirely.

"What. Do. You. See."

"We'll be stopping chemotherapy, Jane. Indefinitely. Maura's body is no longer strong enough. She's shutting down. And it isn't working."

"So? So what? What's next?"

Silence.

"You can't just give up."

"It wouldn't be giving up, Jay."

"There's always surgery," he admits as though it pains him.

"Okay. Yes!"

"But the odds for that have never been good. And now they're even worse. Even if you made it off the table, Maura, there's a good chance we wouldn't be able to get it all, at least not without causing major brain damage, perhaps even paralysis."

The patient nods, but the lover squirms in her seat and bites her lip. The hand in hers is tiny and frail, the bones more delicate than a bird's.

"Think about it," he encourages. "Just, think about it."

She spends most of her time watching her lover sleep, tracing the lines of her cheek bones against the pillow, the dip in her wrist, the hollow space along her neck. Memorizing the path along her collarbone, the cliff of her jawline, the mountains of her spine. She didn't realize that behind the bustle of a hospital, the people coming and going, ants on a string, there existed these pockets of silence. That for twenty minutes after two in the morning, you can practically see the dreams of the woman you love. That there are pictures in the air and the hard edges of the hallway corners soften until they are almost curved and her face is so close to shadow as to have lost its contours, its concavities, its imperfections and its beauties. That in those twenty minutes, reflexive actions such as breathing take concentration and finesse. That beneath the cold exterior of medicine, there exists something beautiful in the simplicity of cells and molecules and atoms, a simplicity she can only grasp halfway between awake and asleep, halfway between life and death. She did not realize there was more to living than a heartbeat, and more to dying than pain.

"Maura, darling, have you thought about this? Truly thought about this?"

"Mother, you know I have."

She's listening just outside the door, even if she shouldn't be.

"Maura," her father's voice sounds gruff. "There is a chance though-"

"Slim. Statistically insignificant."

"Darling," a whisper.

"It's not giving up," and you can hear the tears in her smile.

"Of course it isn't."

"We love you. We love you so much."

"I love you, too."

There must be more than this. There must be. Because her skin feels tight across her face, but at the same time stretched, sloughing off her bones of its own accord. There must be more than this, because the lifted shoulder of the night nurse says, 'get ready,' and Ann's eyebrow reads, 'soon.' But soon is a relative term, and in this case soon is far, far too quickly. And there must be more than this. More than four walls and a ceiling that appears the be falling down upon her, inch by inch each day, sucking out the light as it falls. There must be more than this. It has become her prayer.

"Jane," she presses herself closer to the body next to her. As though she is not already attached to her, finger tip to finger tip, knee cap to upper thigh, rib bone to spine. A perfect specimen of Aristophames' creation story. Four arms, four legs, two hearts beating as one. "Are you awake."

"Yes."

"Jay."

"I know." She has been waiting for this.

"But do you understand? I need you to understand."

She shakes her head no, except she thinks it might be a lie.

"I'm tired, Jay," a whimper released between the technical blips of her heart rate monitor.

"I know."

"This is the most likely way to have as much as time as possible. As much time with you."

"I know."

"Surgery is-it-it's not the best option."

"I know."

"Will you ever be able to forgive me?"

"I already have."

There was champagne on the night the ball fell in New York City. And the nurses wore their hair down, so-to-speak, and the patients smiled and their families grimaced in their best imitation of grins. And everyone counted down. Ten! Nine! Except for her, because counting down meant admitting to the end. Eight! Seven! And endings were her least favorite part of the story these days. Six! Five! Why did such horrid things as new years have to exist? Four! Three! Two! She pressed her lips to Maura's because that was what one did as those around them shouted, "One! Happy New Year!" She kissed the woman she loved because it was 2013 and she was not sure she would survive it.

"Goddamn it! This crazy guy! 'Hon, I think we're out of milk.' I am not your wife you fricken asshole."

"Jane," a placating hand on her arm does nothing soothe her.

She throws the phone against the wall, and something inside her flares in delight when it shatters, tiny bits going every which way. And then that glow dissipates and she is left with her head in her hands.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Janie. Oh sweetheart. Come here." And never have her mother's arms felt more like dragon's wings, strong and impenetrable, shutting out the world with all its noise and chaos.

The universe is trending towards chaos. Entropy. Maura used to tell her about it. Using her geek speak. But she has discovered that the roof is a place where the only chaos is the swirling patterns the snowflakes make as they fall to settle in her brown curls, greasy and snarled. And the chaos of these tiny pinpricks of precipitation is calming compared to the mess that is her world indoors. She holds her hands out, palms up, head tilted back, eyes open, blinking furiously each time one of the white pieces of dust lands in her face. For a moment she thinks it's ash, blown to her from a far distant building, smoldering to the ground, and then the cold returns, fierce. Demanding.

"Jane?"

"Hmm?"

"Here's your new phone. Frankie dropped it off at the house this morning."

"Thanks, ma."

"Good morning, Constance."

"Morning, Angela."

"Is she sleeping still?"

"Like a lamb."

"Alright, well, I'm off to the café; we've got a delivery coming and Mr. Stanley had to be out today." She kisses her adopted daughter's sleeping cheek and manages to peck her eldest child's on her way out the door. "I'll call later this afternoon."

She doesn't wander the halls anymore. She sleeps fitfully in the tiny cot they've had installed in Maura's private room. Each shift on the sheets is scratchy and overloud in the concrete room. She murmurs the names of the nurses to herself as their footsteps grow in volume and then fade outside the half closed door. Nights are long, and days are short and she struggles to a recall a time when she was whole, solid. She is losing something she loves. Someone she loves. And so she is losing herself.

"Sweetheart. I love you, but you have got to get out of this room."

"Maura," growled. She's pacing, back and forth and back and forth.

"I can't leave, but you can. Go pet the dog. Feed the tortoise. See Barry and Vince at the precinct. I know you haven't been returning their calls."

"Are you attempting to guilt trip me, Dr. Isles?"

"Is it working, Detective Rizzoli?"

"Perhaps."

"I love you. And I will be here when you get back."

Promise? But it's silent.

"I promise," she affirms with words.

"Only for a few hours."

"Fine. Just eat some real food. By real food I mean something green-"

"Pickles are green."

"They don't count, detective, and you know it. Now go," and she pushes the other woman away.

"I love you," Jane says. She does not mumble it any longer. There is no time for whispers. "Two hours. Tops." She kisses a high forehead, and is gone.

There are cars. And people. People frowning at the phones in their hands and yelling at the voices in their ears. People giving up their seats on buses and on trains. People walking dogs, people pushing baby strollers in front of them. People who are living. Actual lives. She'd nearly forgotten what it looks like. She stops at red lights, at stop signs. She drives on the proper side of the road and uses her turning signal. She follows rules designed by society to keep its citizens safe, to keep them alive. Living. She'd almost forgotten.

"Ma, hey," she is nervous to be in this bustling place. She feels like an outsider.

"Janie! Hi! You should have called; I could have made you some lunch."

"No, lunch, ma. I just stopped by to check in with the guys upstairs. I went home and saw Jo and Bass, but I had a few more minutes."

"Well, they'll be so happy to see you!"

"Where do you want these Mrs. Rizzoli?"

"Oh, Dominick, delivering the bread again! Janie, you remember Dominick, don't you?"

"Yes." She pauses. Her mother nudges her. "How are you?" It's crazy how quickly such subtleties of human interaction escape you when you're living in the twilight zone.

"Good. It's nice to see you, Jane."

"Good to see you," she nods.

"You, um, you used to love fresh ciabatta rolls," he points to her.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah! Bianchi's Bakery," she's finally placed him. Ciabatta is made with white flour. If Maura were here, she'd make some crack about endosperm, Jane is nearly sure of it. "Ma, I-I think I'm going to head upstairs."

"Of course, honey."

"Nice to see you again," she gives the man a quick smile.

"You, too!" he calls after her.

"Just bring that back here," her mother orders. "Just back here."

She escapes for the stairs before she can remember this is only shore leave, quick, fleeting.

Camaraderie. That is what this place gives her. Strength and confidence and camaraderie. A partner who high fives her when she appears, flushed from the several flights of stairs. An old man who takes her teasing with a twinkle in his eye. People who ask her advice on a case of a murdered husband and wife psychiatrist duo. People who respect her and trust her and look up to her. It's her second home, and she can almost breathe again being here.

"Another weird text?"

"Yeah. Frankie just picked up this phone for me yesterday. It's got the same number, and that guy keeps texting me."

"Hon, don't forget your Brazilian?" he raises his eyebrows.

"Give that back!"

"Sounds like somebody's got a special appointment today."

"Shut up." He tosses the phone back to her and she deletes the message quickly. "Is that the time? Shit! I've got to get back."

"Jane, I'm sure it's fine."

"No, I-I know. It's just that I said two hours, and I don't want to be late."

"Okay-y-y, but we'll see you again soon?"

"I - sure, Frost."

"We were thinking about stopping by tomorrow," Korsak indicated the younger man and himself.

She paused in her headlong rush towards the door. "Yes. That would be great. She'd, um, love to see you both."

"Alright. Four-ish?"

"Whenever."

"We'll call first."

"Okay. I'll tell her you're coming. Thanks, guys," and it's thanks for filling her in on a details of a case that isn't hers and thanks for taking her mind off of real life for an hour, and thanks for too many things to put into words.

"No problem. See you tomorrow."

She's off, moving towards the elevator, back towards her future, her past, her present.

Whoever decided there was something beautiful about winter in the city was sorely mistaken. The snow can never seem to decide whether to stay or to go. The exhaust from a million cars turns it's pure layers into mud, black and salty and sooty. It doesn't even look like snow anymore, but some devilish thing, dirty and old. She is very nearly excited to return to the fake lighting and sterile walls of the hospital. There at least everything is clean and well-ordered chaos.

"Whaa..Noo. Hey, Dominick." She scrubs her hand across her face. "Uh, do you know how long you're gonna be? This is my car right here."

"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry."

"That's okay!" It isn't.

"I-argh." He's dropped a bag full of bread.

"That's okay." She says again.

"Ca-can you just put that back on the rack?" he hands her a brown paper bag. "I'll move the truck"

"Ok, thank you."

"Hey! You know what, why don't you grab a bag of ciabatta. It's still warm. It's on the last rack."

"Ok. Thank you."

"Sure." He waves it off as he heads around towards the driver's door.

"This one?"

"Yeah!" The rumble of the truck's engine turning over fills the air.

"Thank you so much. I'll see you later." She waves over her shoulder as she turns towards the back doors, still swinging open. "Thank yo- No!" It comes out as a yelp, strangled and cut off because he's pushed something into her neck, sharp, pointy, and the world goes black.