AN: Alright, y'all, so here's the deal. I haven't updated this story in nearly two months, and really, the only excuse I have is…well…life. Which, unfortunately at times, is not fiction. BUT I wrote this chapter. And I was going to wait to post it (seeing as how it hasn't been edited or read through or critiqued) until I'd finished the story. There's only about three chapters (TOPS) left. Except I couldn't wait. I'm too impatient. And y'all have been so nice and kind and worried. And the fact that some people out there actually messaged me asking for updates kind of has me all in a delighted tizzy. Suffice it to say, you are all wonderful, and I'm going to shut up now and let these characters speak for themselves.

PS – There will be another update tomorrow. I promise. Love.

She wakes up suddenly, as though she's been plunged into an icy cold stream. She feels more alert than she has in days. For the past several days she's been able to feel the pounding in her head even through the pain medication they've been giving her, but now, it's nothing more than a small annoyance. Her limbs feel weak still, removed from her body, as if she's simply a torso, lacking appendages. And she isn't sure if, when she raises her arm above her prostrate form to study the IV taped there, pumping drugs into her system, keeping her comfortable, but not really working to keep her alive, she isn't sure if she's the one controlling the movement or not. Her head is light, airy, and if it were not for the sheet and blanket lying heavily upon her, she is certain that she would float up into the air. A helium balloon carried ever higher, until the ceiling held her back from breaking free into the sky.

Something's wrong. She can feel it, in the place where Jane says her gut is. And even though her rational mind reminds her that internal organs don't speak, she is certain that what she's feeling is true. Something's wrong.

And it isn't her. It isn't the fact that she is more lucid than she's been since being admitted to the hospital. It isn't the fact that she can push herself up into a semi-sitting position without gasping for pain, without feeling as if her head is being cleaved in two with a butcher knife. No. It's the fact that she's alone. She is the only person in the room, the four square walls, covered in a horrendous shade of green stare grimly back at her. Even the fake flowers Mrs. Rizzoli has been bringing daily do little to cheer up the space. She can just make out her reflection in the window: tiny and frail, her pale face staring confusedly back at her from the darkness outside the glass. She takes a breath, shallow, nearly gasping; it breaks the stillness in the room. Something's wrong.

The solitude grips her tightly, wrapping itself around her small frame, squeezing what little oxygen she's managed to procure out of her lungs. She hasn't been alone before; not in here anyway. It's true that she spent much of her life alone, growing up alone, learning alone, working alone, sleeping alone. She never minded the quiet before, the feeling of being the only living and breathing human in a space. She'd even managed to convince herself that she liked being alone, liked the freedom it afforded her to think her own thoughts, to be her own mind. She'd titled herself "independent" rather than "lonely," "well-read" instead of "empty." But she has not been alone in a long while, not since a wild-haired, brash, outspoken detective came into her life, busted into her morgue, demanded her friendship without taking no for an answer, stole her way into Maura's heart before the medical examiner had time to realize what was happening. She has not been alone since Jane became her friend, her confidante, her caretaker, her love. And she finds that she is out of practice, no longer comfortable in the emptiness.

Something's wrong. Because Jane went home to feed the dog and pat the tortoise and perhaps to head in to the Precinct to see the guys, but she hadn't left Maura alone. She wouldn't; she was stubborn that way. Constance had been here, and Richard, and she'd felt certain that as she'd slipped into an exhausted sleep, exhausted from lying in bed all day, exhausted from the pure effort living took, her mother had held her delicate hand loosely in her own soft one and whispered that they'd be there when she woke up. She'd smiled slightly because she'd never heard her mother make such a promise before and it made her feel safe inside, loved, like the child she'd never gotten to be. But her parents were no longer by her bedside, a book in her mother's hand, the laptop resting on her father's lap while he stared blankly out the window and didn't actually get any work done. And Jane wasn't here either.

Jane, who Maura loved more than anything in the world. Jane who'd promised she'd be back in two hours and who never broke a promise, especially not one she'd made with Maura's knuckles to her lips, her dark brown eyes holding her lover's hazel ones seriously with her own. Jane who told Maura she loved her everyday, every hour, every minute, just by refusing to give up, refusing to let her go quietly, the way she might have four years ago when she was still used to being alone. Jane, the one thing that was making it so difficult for Maura to simply slip away one night without a sound. Jane was nowhere to be seen, and the solitude she never thought she'd see again was stifling her. She'd only woken five minutes ago and already she felt as though she were drowning, her lungs filling with invisible liquid, drowning from the inside out.

She'd never needed anyone the way she'd needed Jane. Never, in all her life. And her detective had said two hours, but it was very clearly dark outside already. Winter in Boston meant the sun set unnaturally early; it was perhaps only six o'clock. But still, that meant Jane had left hours ago. She'd promised. She'd promised to come back! Maura had forced her to go, forced her to leave the prison that the hospital was morphing into, forced her to go outside, breathe real air, remember that there was more to life than dying. Because there was, and Maura, as much as she'd promised Jane that this was the best course of action, that she was ready, needed to make sure, above all things, that Jane knew there was more than this. More than wasting away, watching helplessly as your own body betrayed you. More than squeaky-clean linoleum and the private language only nurses would ever be fluent in.

She'd spoken to the hospital psychologist, of course, multiple times. But she knew Jane. Knew the way the woman's mind worked, knew her quirks and her charms, knew that the huskiness in her voice in the morning meant it had been a restless night, knew that when Jane tapped her thumb gently against Maura's fingertips while they laid in bed together, it meant the brunette was lost in thought. Knew that if she stilled the incessant, unconscious movement by covering it with her other hand, Jane would come back to her immediately, shifting so their bodies were closer than close. And so she knew that Jane, as much as she spoke to Maura, whispered loving words under cover of darkness and read her the New York Times each morning, was not speaking to anyone else. She knew that the other woman would have locked herself away from the others, from Angela and Tommy, Frankie and Frost. That Jane, as lively as she was, as buoyant and full of energy, would be the one closest to slipping away after it was all over. And so she'd sent Jane away to remind her that there were more things to live for than the beeping of a heart monitor.

But Jane has not come back and Maura is more awake than she's been in weeks and she wants the other woman's touch, the closeness, the feeling that she isn't alone, that she has someone who loves her enough to pretend that wishes came true and dreams might someday become reality. She'd lived with the constant pain of a head under attack for months, but it was quite suddenly her heart that felt constricted, felt compressed and in pain, and as it gaze a sharp stab of pain in protest, she whimpered.

It was 5:30 and Angela was dead on her feet. She wasn't even supposed to work today except Stanley called in with some excuse and she couldn't very well leave all the entire Boston police force to starve, now could she? So of course she'd gone in, although she'd been looking forward to perhaps spending the day at the hospital with Jane and Maura. She would never say so in front of her oldest child, but the medical examiner was looking smaller and smaller each day against her white pillows. Angela Rizzoli was an optimist in nearly every sense of the word, but even she was having a difficult time keeping her spirits up in such hard times.

Seeing Janie at the precinct had been a nice surprise. It was good to see her daughter getting out of that hospital. She'd lost quite a bit of weight and was looking awfully pale. But seeing Barry and Vince was sure to have cheered her up a bit, or at least returned some of the pink to her cheeks and life to her dark brown eyes. Angela was nothing if not a mother hen and it hurt her to see her child in such distress. There was very little she could do to make it better either, and she knew it. But she hoped that a short break might have given Jane a second wind.

She had her phone out of her purse and was scrolling through her contacts looking for Jane's number as she headed out of the building. She barely bothered to look around as she headed down the street the few yards towards where she'd parked her car earlier that day. She'd call and check in before heading home to get freshened up. Visiting hours ended at eight, but Jane, who, for someone who professed not to be a people person, got on awfully well with the nursing staff, and usually managed to get them to let the family stay awhile later as long as Maura was up to it. She was just pressing the send button and bringing the phone up to her ear, opening the driver's side door as she did so, when she saw it, parked across the street – Jane's car.

She knew – immediately - as only a mother whose two oldest children both worked in law enforcement, who both faced death on a weekly basis, could know. Something was wrong.

She walked shakily across the street, ignoring the car that honked its horn angrily at her as it passed. As she approached the vehicle, she once more scrolled through her contacts.

"Constance," she managed when the other woman answered on the first ring. "Is Jane there?" She stared unseeingly in through the side window at Jane's blazer, resting on the passenger seat, some pictures lying on top of it.

"No she isn't," Constance was saying into her ear.

Janie must have grabbed them from the house to bring them to Maura. She was always doing sweet things like that. Small things that she tried to brush off if anyone noticed.

"Angela? Angela, are you still there?"

"Wha-? Oh, yes. I'm sorry, Constance." Her daughter loved that woman. Loved her in a way Angela had never thought she'd witness. Jane was more loyal and devoted to Maura Isles than the matriarch had believed it was possible to be.

"Is everything okay?" Constance sounded worried.

"Let me call you back," she didn't even notice as she hung up on Constance who was still trying to question her. She looked around, studying the snow-covered street, illuminated only by the street lamps and the light leaking from the windows of the Boston Police Department. Jane had left hours before; Vince had texted her after her daughter headed back to the hospital. Why was her car still here? Parked and slowly being covered with a blanket of snow?

Frankie was number 3 on her speed dial. He answered quickly, "What's up, Ma? I just finished my shift. Wanna ride to the hospital together?"

"N-no."

"Ma?" Her middle child had always been the most reliable of her three offspring, the most level-headed.

"Frankie," she didn't recognize her own voice, shaky and strangled, "your sister's missing. She's gone."

There are fingers on her cheek, caressing her. And a warm body next to her. She rolls her head back and forth. It feels heavy on her neck, looser than normal. Maura, she wants to say. Maura, what're you doing? But the words won't come. Her mouth feels thick, like she's been sucking on cotton. The breath is warm on her face, except, something doesn't feel right. The fingertips are rougher than her doctor's, the breath is stale, and the weight next to her is heavy and pressing. Her brown eyes flutter open; the room is blurry at first. She's confused. Why can't she see straight?

And there's a face next to her, so close she can't focus on it. But it isn't Maura; that's the first coherent thought she's managed since coming 'round. She tries to pull away, her automatic fight or flight response kicking in, but even as she does, she finds that she can hardly move. Her arms are held out an odd angles, forcing her into the crucified position. She shakes them and hears the telltale rattle of handcuffs. And then she can feel them, already digging into her wrists. She whimpers.

"Hey, honey," the person who is not Maura whispers in an attempt at a soothing, sweet voice, but it comes off too high, sickly and false. "You missed your Brazilian wax."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but she watches as his eyes sweep up and down her lithe frame, tied to the bed, and she feels the bile rise in her throat. "You were the one who was texting me?" and she can't keep the fear, the disgust out of her voice.

"Of course, honey," he smiles, and the urge to vomit grows stronger. "You're my wife."

Her head is still aching and she feels a little slower on the uptake than usual, as though her neurons aren't firing as quickly as they ought to be. Or at least, that's what Maura would say. Maura. Oh God. She yanks on the handcuffs again, ignoring the pain that shoots up her arms. She told Maura she'd be back in two hours, tops. And for a moment, she doesn't think about the man smiling lovingly down at her with more than a hint of delusional burning in his eyes, she doesn't think about the fact that she's lying on a bed that is not her own, trapped in God knows where. Because all she can think about is Maura, and how she promised that she'd be back in two hours. Tops.

There were voices, voices outside her room. And drawing closer. She froze, having been in the midst of struggling to sit up, struggling to see past the hazy four feet that was her visionary spectrum these days, struggling for Jane. Something's wrong.

"Richard. Richard!" That's Constance's voice calling down from down the hall. "Richard, you mustn't." She has never heard such emotion in her mother's voice before. If she could just place it… Maura screws up her face and places her hands over her eyes, blocking out the emptiness of the room. She concentrates, attempting to place the sound waves, the pitch, the rise and fall of her mother's intonation. Her voice is quieter now, speaking softly and quickly, and Maura can barely make out the words through the door. "We can't tell her." That's fear.

"She needs to know, Connie. She's going to notice immediately. You know her; the two of them a-" She's never heard her father sound quite so serious.

"No!" Sharp, fast, plaintive. "You heard Officer Rizzoli." That was Frankie, Maura knew. "He said he'd call when they had more news."

"Connie, you can't honestly think you're going to walk into that room and she isn't going to realiz-"

"I said no, Richard!" This is a command. "For all we know, she could just have gone off on a long walk-"

She hears her father give a short bark of laughter.

"And she'll turn up any moment now."

"Constance that is the most ridiculous thing I think you've ever said," she has never heard her father speak this way to her mother. They have always been polite to one another in her presence, even when she could tell that they disagreed about something. She's trying to decipher their words, understand what it is exactly that they're saying, but she's having a difficult time focusing.

"I'm her mother, Richard. I won't have her getting all upset."

"She's already going to be upset!" her father declares, his voice louder, carrying through to where his grown daughter is sitting up in bed, her face pale, her whole body shaking with the effort of remaining upright.

"It could kill her!" Constance nearly shrieks it, but all the same, the words come out as a near whisper.

Maura can picture her parents just outside her hospital room door. Her father wearing a rumpled suit. Her mother, looking as pristine as ever, not a single hair out of place, but the dark circles beneath her eyes belying her exhaustion. They're all exhausted. She knows this. And she feels guilty about because it is her fault they have lived almost a month of their lives in this place, putting their lives on hold while she watches hers slip away between her fingertips. She can picture them, her mother's eyes shining with tears, staring defiantly up at her father. Richard Isles looking helplessly back. He's always known what to do, her father, always had a plan, been in charge, but she knows that he has no idea what to do now. How to handle this…situation…of hers. He's at a loss, and she wants to tell him that it's alright, it's okay to be unsure, to lose control, but she knows he won't listen. He's her father.

From a great distance it seems, she finally puts two and two together to realize that they are talking about her. And her mother's final words seem to echo around the room. It could kill her. Bouncing off the walls, the linoleum floor. It could kill her! Growing bigger, louder, more corporeal with each echo. It could kill her! Her, meaning Maura.

She runs back through their entire conversation in her head, even as she hears her mother cry outside her door, hears her father's soothing whispers, pictures him taking Constance into his strong, protective arms, rubbing a hand down her back. She has never felt this slow before, unable to compute the data correctly, to make the connections that are waiting just beyond her reach. Maybe she just went for a walk. Officer Rizzoli said. The two of them. It could kill her! Jane.

"Jane," the name slips from her lips, a million and one prayers in a single syllable. The pounding in her head has suddenly returned full force. It is now vying for control with the shooting pain emanating out from her heart, struggling to be the most dominate hurt. But it shan't win, no, because even as her lover's name is released into the air, beginning its own echoing path across the empty space that is her room, her heart is winning the battle. And the pain is excruciating – worse than anything Maura has ever experienced. "Jane. You said two hours. Oh, God, Jane." She's speaking to an empty room, to a detective that is not there, a detective who is late. And she's crying and her heart feels as if it's shattering into pieces, shards littering the blankets around her, sharp edges glinting in the fake lighting, ready to cut whoever is unwary enough to attempt to pick them up and fit them back together.

The door handle is turning; her parents are coming in. Her mother must have gotten herself firmly back under control. They're coming in, and Maura can only gaze helplessly at the pieces of her heart spread around her, evidence, condemning her. She tries to straighten, to take a deep breath, to pretend as though she has not heard them arguing, has no clue what is going on beyond the doors of her prison cell – because, quite suddenly, the room is a prison, the bed is a cage, her body is a straightjacket – but she knows that she will be unsuccessful.

"Maura, are you awake darling?" her mother's falsely cheery voice calls as the door continues its forward motion, swinging inward. An object, once put in motion, will remain in motion until acted upon by an outside force.

Maura feels as though she might be sick from the pain of it all. She turns her face away from the door, hoping, helplessly, that she can keep her mother from reading her emotions. Maura has never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve - that was always Jane – but now, she is quite certain that even if she attempted, with all her might, to control her facial muscles, she would fail.

But her shoulders are shaking, giving her away. In fact, her entire body is trembling, a leaf in a storm. And, "Maura? Maura, darling, are you alright?" Constance has moved quickly into the room, sweeping around the bed and rounding it towards her daughter. "Richard," she calls. "Richard, come here! Maura, sweetheart," she reaches out a hand as though to cradle her grown child against her.

The woman in the bed does not mean to, she cannot help it, but she shies away. Her mother is blurry in front of her, her face lost to her daughter, but Maura's memory reconstructs it nearly perfectly. Nose. Eyes. Mouth, pursed in a worried frown. Dried tear tracks still present on her powdered cheeks, much as Constance has tried to wipe them away. Constance has stopped dead, her arm still stretched halfway towards her daughter.

"Maura," she murmurs.

"Mother," Maura's voice is harsh, unused.

"Yes, sweetheart," she does not sound as confident as she used to. Her own voice, soft, trembles on the term of endearment.

"Where is she?" Maura feels rather than sees her mother glance to her father for guidance. Feels him shrug from where he has taken up watch at the end of the bed.

"You should by laying down," the older woman begins. "Resting."

"Mothe-"

"You're extremely pale, Maura." Her mother's words are tight and clipped as though she is afraid that either Richard or her daughter will begin speaking over her at any moment and ruin the last chance she has at keeping order. "Perhaps we should call the nurse. Increase your pain medication."

"I'm fine," she manages, and the lie does not even burn her throat coming out. "Where is she?" she speaks slowly, partly because her mouth is having a hard time forming the proper phonemes, and partly so as to make sure her mother understands the question.

"Who, dear?" Playing dumb has never been one of Constance Isles' strong suits.

"Connie," Richard warns.

"Where. Is. my-Jane?" She slips up. Because she isn't sure what she was going to say after "my." My detective? My love? My life? But she knows she's slipped up based upon the hot, heavy tears sliding down her cheeks. This can't be happening. This is a dream. Some horrible nightmare that she'll awake from and Jane, her darling, her strong, proud, flawed, beautiful, wonderful Jane will be there, pressed tightly against her, holding her. In fact, maybe the past three months have simply been a dream. Maybe one day she'll close her eyes and when she awakens, she'll find that the world has once more reverted to normal and there is no cancer, no death around the horizon, no tumor in her brain, no chance that she'll be leaving Jane behind much, much too soon.

She doesn't realize that she's let out a gasp of petrified, humorless laughter until she feels her mother's hand on her forehead. "You're burning up," Constance cries, lunging for the nurse's call button, even as she presses down on Maura's shoulder to force her back down onto the bed.

"Mother," Maura is struggling for air, struggling to find the words. "It hurts," and she can hear the whimper from deep in her throat, her voice that is not her voice at all, that sounds foreign to her ears.

"It's alright, darling. It'll be alright."

"Where is she?" the patient can hardly get the words out now. The darkness is closing in, the emptiness wrapping itself around her, and if it weren't for the pain – the pounding at the base of her skull, the burning sensation in her chest as though something has been ripped from its resting place – she is sure that she would already have succumbed to the stuffy darkness. It is the hurt that is tethering her to solid ground, keeping her awake. "Where is she?" But the words are lost, uttered soundlessly as she loses consciousness and the pain is no more.

AN2: Still with me?