Series title: Whumptober 2023

Chapters: 1/1

Characters: Jane Rizzoli / Charles Hoyt / Maura Isles

Trigger warnings: Blood, Flashback, Panic Attack, Violence,

A/N: The characters and universe don't belong to me. All rights go to TNT, and everyone involved in the production of Rizzoli and Isles, as well as Tess Gerritsen. Everything else belongs to my twisted imagination.

A/N2: The whole flashback is a passage from Tess Gerritsen' novel 'The Surgeon' that I've rewritten in my style.

All of these stories are only meant to be one-shots, but many have asked for more. They are written as part of the 2023 Whumptober challenge. I'm following the list of prompts and didn't intend to write second parts for any of the one-shots. That's why they're all posted separately.


Jane flexed and stretched her fingers while she waited outside the morgue. It was her first day back at Homicide after a long sick leave. The recent scars in her palms ached at the movements, painful reminders of why she had been absent for so long. People were staring at her and murmuring in her back. Some had even asked to see the scars. She had properly told them to go to hell with a glare that she had yet to perfect. Not many colleagues were afraid of a young detective (as good as they were) that had stupidly thrown herself in the hands of one of the most prolific serial killers the country had ever seen. Her partner, Vince Korsak, who had shot and arrested the Surgeon, was considered the hero of the story, when he only followed her intuition. An intuition that he had refused to believe in at first, but since she was his partner, he had come to her rescue. Just in time.

She had met her new partner that morning. Detective Barry Frost, a rookie with a weak stomach. It was amusing everyone around him. Not quite the guy you could trust to have your back. But she liked him. He was a nice guy, and he reminded her of herself when she had started in the job. He wanted to prove his worth. Korsak wasn't too fond of the situation. He couldn't understand why she had asked for a new partner, and she refused to tell him that it was because he had seen her in a weak position. How could he trust her to have his back after that? He was happy that she was back to work though. She was a good element and things had been different without her. They even had thought about Crowe to replace her. She snorted. Crowe wasn't a bad detective, he was just an asshole who thought she had nothing to do in Homicide, or in the force at all.

Her fingers hurt from the repetitive movement. She couldn't help herself. It was an exercise her physiotherapist had advised her to repeat several times a day. Her hands had been stiff for weeks from the lack of use and she had had to force them to work again despite the pain. The rage burning inside her and her will to get back to work as soon as possible had pushed her to work hard on her re-education. She wasn't sure if she could still play piano, but she could hold her gun and fire at a target as well as before. That was the most important. But her job as a detective was to find out how and why their victims had been killed. Detectives were usually waiting for the medical examiner to be done with the autopsy, but her therapist had suggested that she tried to come down to the morgue and watch them work to conquer her fear of scalpels.

She had heard that the precinct had a new medical examiner. A woman. She hadn't heard much about her except that she was cold, detached and meticulous. Some said that she was uptight. Everyone called her Queen of the Dead or Ice Queen. She didn't like any of the nicknames. They had a pejorative connotation. She remembered all too well how unpleasant it was to be called names by people. She would use her name and title. Those were much more respectful. Dr. Maura Isles. How would the doctor react to her presence in the morgue? Not many detectives were coming down to watch the autopsy, and some medical examiners didn't like being observed while working. It could disturb them, especially if they were as patient as she was. She had often been kicked out of the lab in the past.

And today she was standing there before the doors leading to the morgue, unable to move, unable to come in. The smell had hit her first. Antiseptic and disinfectant to clean all surfaces and avoid any contamination. It couldn't quite cover the smell of death, but it made it bearable. It wasn't the reason why she was rooted to the spot. She didn't mind that smell, unlike Frost. Through the glass door, she could see the back of a petite woman wearing black scrubs (that fitted her body all too well) under a smock. She had blonde caramel hair in a ponytail. She was speaking in a voice recorder as she proceeded to a preliminary exam of the body. On her right, perfectly lined up on a tray were a series of tools that included scalpels. She swallowed when a gloved hand reached for the first scalpel.

The two by four slammed into her temple so violently that she lost her balance and fell to the basement packed earthen floor face first. She struggled to get her body to cooperate, to stop the basement from around her. The two by four hit her again. In the side that time. The force of the blow expelled all the air out of her lungs and broke her ribs with a distinct and frightening crack. She rolled onto her back to avoid the next blow that would inevitably come if she stayed down. Her chest hurt; she couldn't draw oxygen in without an excruciating pain.

She saw the lightbulb first. It was a white dangling spot above her. His silhouette swallowed the light as he stood over her, studying his greatest prize, eyeing the detective that had challenged him and found him when all the experienced agents and police officers had been unable to. She couldn't clearly see his face, but she saw the smirk. That was it. Her obsession of finding the Surgeon would lead to her downfall. She wouldn't let him get her without fighting. She would use every little strength she had to fight him so her death wouldn't be vain.

She rolled on her uninjured side and tried to get up. She wouldn't be an easy prey. His foot kicked her arm. She lost her balance again and collapsed to the ground. She let out a cry of agony as the impact jarred her broken ribs. The pain kept her still, even as he stepped closer, even as she saw the two by four coming back to hit her.

He didn't hit her with it. His foot crushed her left wrist against the ground. She wasn't aware that she was screaming. He reached for the instrument tray. His fingers closed around a scalpel. She was praying now. His foot still on her wrist, he crouched down and brought the scalpel to her open hand.

The steel penetrated her flesh and pierced straight through to the earthen floor. Her hand was skewered to the floor. She was deaf to her own shriek. She had to move, but she couldn't. The pain was unbearable. Her hand was on fire. He didn't want her to move. He had made sure she wouldn't move.

He wasn't done with her. Screwing up her dominant hand wasn't enough. She could still fight him with her other hand, and he had that need to satisfy a sadistic pleasure in having her mercilessly pinned to the floor like a butterfly on display.

He grabbed her right hand before she could even try to move and pulled on her arm, extending it like her left. His boot crushed her wrist like it did with the other. He picked another scalpel from the tray and brought it down in her open (by force) palm, stabbing through flesh and earth as easily as if it was soft butter. Her scream was weaker, defeated. She had lost that dangerous game in the most humiliating way.

The look he gave her when he stood up was one of a collector watching his most precious piece. His hand picked a third scalpel. With both of her arms stretched out and her hands skewered to the ground, she could only wait for the end to come. He was taking his time, enjoying the scene. He crouched down, grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her head backward to have a full access to her neck. He ran the scalpel along her cheek. It was so gentle, so soft, that it could have been the touch of a lover. It barely grazed her skin.

Her throat lay bare. Her main arteries were offered to the murderous blade. She had always been a fighter but in this, she was conquered. She closed her eyes and wished for to be quick. He took a deep breath. The blade nicked her throat. She waited for the fatal blow, but it never came. Gunshots filled the air, startling her, and Hoyt fell to the ground. It was over.

"Detective?"

The basement faded away to be replaced by the warm surroundings of a luxurious office she had ever seen in her entire life. The air was filled with a soft perfume that she couldn't identify. Her hands ached even more than earlier and were curled on her lap, useless. She was ungraciously slouched on a couch that must have cost more than her monthly salary and before her was sat Dr. Maura Isles with a worried frown on her face.

She sat up and checked around her to make sure Hoyt wasn't hiding anywhere. The doctor gave her the time to process everything without a word. She looked awkward, as if she didn't know what to do with her now that she was back to her senses, as if she couldn't deal with living people and was even afraid of them.

"What happened?"

Her tongue was furry. Her throat was dry. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Her mind was buzzing. It wasn't the first time a memory of what had happened in the basement was assaulting her, but it never had been that violent.

"I was about to perform the autopsy when I heard you fall just outside the morgue."

Great. What a first impression you made there, Rizzoli.

"I was aware that some people were scared of me, but none of them ever had a panic attack before."

"It's not you. I've heard only good about you."

"I know what people say about me, Detective, and it's not nice. Not that I care much."

"I don't listen to rumours. I prefer making my own mind up. And your first impression of me hasn't been the greatest."

She chuckled and raised a hand to run it through her hair before the pain reminded her that she was temporarily unable to use her hands at all. Dr. Isles was staring at her hands. She looked down, refusing to meet the eyes of the doctor.

"You're Detective Jane Rizzoli," she said matter-of-factly. "I heard a lot about you."

"Do not believe a word that comes out of Crowe's mouth."

"You've developed a fear of scalpels. It's not unusual after such a traumatism."

She said nothing. Even the new medical examiner knew about Hoyt and about her hands. Not a single soul in that precinct ignored about how stupid she had been to run after the Surgeon alone and how affected she was by the experience.

"Maybe I came back too soon."

"Only you can tell. What were you doing down here? The other detectives never come down."

"It's part of the job, and I don't mind it. Thought it could help me."

"You can stay here. If you want. Clary sage scent has been proven to relieve stress by decreasing the cortisol levels in your body. I thought it was appropriate for the situation."

"You've never done this before, right?"

"I've taken an oath a long time ago."

Jane gave Dr. Isles a gentle smile. She didn't understand why people had saddled her with those nicknames. She had a weird way of talking (like all scientists did actually) and was a bit awkward in social situations but she otherwise looked like a nice person.

Dr. Isles got up and gave her a cup of water that she had to help her to drink because of her hands. Her eyes held no judgement as she held the cup for her to drink slowly. She put the cup away when she was done. She was about to leave to go back to the autopsy she had left to help her.

"Thanks a lot, Dr. Isles."

"I'm not used to my patients thanking me."

"That'd be weird."

"Indeed."

"Can I offer you a coffee or something when you'll be done?"

"I'd love that."

A smile crossed the doctor's lips. Jane couldn't help but think that she was beautiful. Maybe they could become friends. The doctor looked a bit lonely to her. She was new around here and people hadn't been nice to her, but Jane wasn't like them. She liked the woman already...