The restroom door opened with a shushing sound. Maura knew the clack of her heels – however much she altered her gait to minimize noise – would likely alert Jane to her approach. She stopped, letting the door swing shut behind her with a muffled bump. Standing stock still, she listened.
There. There it was.
Her heart clenched at the sound.
Stifled, rib-wracking sobs, barely restrained by what was now likely a tear-stained shirt sleeve.
If she hadn't been paying attention, she might not have heard it.
But Maura Isles always paid attention. Maura Isles always paid attention to Jane Rizzoli.
She felt helpless, useless. She wanted to reach out, to at least say something. Impart words of comfort for her grieving friend, the woman she loved. But she remained firmly rooted to the spot where she had stopped to listen. Aching at the sound as Jane wept, yet inexplicably unable to respond.
Jane…Oh, Jane. The familiar globus pharyngis sensation built painfully in her throat. She swallowed ineffectively against it. What can I do?
The sobs gradually quieted, replaced by sporadic sniffles. Maura bowed her head. She is no longer mine to comfort. She never was really mine.
As the room grew quieter, Maura urged her vocal chords to vibrate, and her lips to take the familiar shape of Jane's name.
She could not. Words died in her throat, faded on her tongue. Her best friend was suffering and she could do nothing.
Eventually, even the sniffles stopped, and if she strained she could hear Jane's determined efforts to calm her diaphragm into a regular rhythm. Slow, deliberate breaths. Ujayii breathing.
Maura shook her head and turned silently to the door. Hating her own cowardice.
She passed Jane's desk on her way back to the elevator, and consequently, Frost's empty chair, his desk cleared of all personal touches. Stinging tears threatened with a vengeance. She quickened her pace to the elevator, seeking detachment in the cold sterility of the morgue. Emotionally she felt subterranean. It was fitting that she should descend physically as well.
It took way more strength than she felt she had, but Jane finally managed to get her tears in check and her breathing under control. Yanking several squares of toilet paper off the roll, she wiped her eyes one last time and blew her nose. She wadded up the paper, pitched it in the toilet bowl, took two more deep breaths, and unlocked the stall door. She bumped it open with her knee and went straight to the sink. Her abdomen was sore and she felt vaguely nauseous. Leaning with stiff arms on the counter, she forced herself to make eye contact with her reflection.
She smirked. The aftermath of crying this hard wasn't a look that wore well on anyone. Her face was flushed. Her eyes were bloodshot. A splash of cold water on her face helped only slightly.
She sighed and looked back at herself in the mirror. Get it together, Rizzoli. You're not honoring Frost or helping anybody else who knew him by all the gross sobbing. She loosed one more heavy sigh and pushed off the counter.
It was time to get to work.