Two weeks in Boston and you've already found your end. You've earned yourself quite the nickname.

'Queen of the dead.'

You tap your pen absently against your desk, trying to ignore the strands of hair that have escaped your barrette. It's been a long day, and you want nothing more than to go home. But this nickname's got you tangled up and distracted in your own mind.

It's nothing new to you. You've had your share of nicknames, and right away, you decide this one's at least partially acceptable. Of course, you're not supposed to know about it. You're supposed to be the punchline of the detectives' jokes about death, and you really don't mind much. Just as long as they focus their ridicule on you rather than the deceased.

You shake your head, smiling a little. It's really not so bad. Sure, you're no queen of anything, but it's not the worst name in the world.

Giving up, you drop your pen and fix your hair, as it does not seem like you're leaving anytime too soon.

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...

.

It all started on your third day when a body was discovered in a school cafeteria in South Boston. You'd received your very first call as the Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, so naturally, you were thrilled. Well, as thrilled as someone in your position could possibly be at the notion of death. You had the body transferred back to your lab. All was well until you let the little voice inside your head escape while leaning over the body.

With your scalpel-equipped hand hovering just inches over the sternum, you mumbled just loud enough for all the detectives to hear: "Say 'ah.'"

The confused faces that followed told you that you'd done something socially unacceptable. You'd filed that into your mind, making a note not to talk to the bodies out loud. Or at least in front of people.

As if that wasn't enough. Once you thought they'd all gone home for the night, you did one last check over the body to make sure you'd done everything just so. You like to be thorough. Even as a child you did everything at least three times through just to make sure everything was perfect.

You had been reaching for your clipboard- one of the 'humorous' lab techs thought it'd be a wonderful idea to place it on the top shelf of your equipment cabinet. You knew what they were doing, and it didn't bother you much. Pick on the new ME. There was no ill-will. Just a bunch of co-workers looking for a laugh. That still didn't change the fact that there was no way on earth you'd be able to reach your clipboard without climbing onto the counter, and you were not going to do that in the dress you'd selected earlier that morning.

Thinking you were alone, you'd turned to the body of the man on the table- Holden Mitchell. Approximately thirty years. Seventy-five inches in height. You smiled at the corpse: "If only I could wake you up and use your height."

A chuckle from behind you automatically informed you that you'd made a grave mistake. Sane people do not talk to exposed corpses. Especially those of which should be complete strangers. You'd spun around just in time to see the female detective cover her mouth with her hand.

"Um, hey doc. I was gonna ask you somethin', but uh, you look kinda busy there."

Mortified, you stared at your shoes and willed her to leave. But she didn't. She just stood there in all her tall, dark glory and smiled at you.

"Alright, alright. I guess I should'a knocked. I'll try that next time."

You nodded, still keeping your eyes on the floor, "Y-you had a question, Detective...?"

"Rizzoli," she answered. "Jane Rizzoli, and no, it wasn't important."

You finally stole a look at her, only to have all the air vanish from your lungs. Her dark eyes held yours with an intensity you'd never experienced in your entire life, and you felt the words of potential jumbled sentences die on your tongue.

"Need some help?" she'd asked but didn't wait for your answer. She'd simply walked right past you, reached up, and easily retrieved the clipboard.

"Here you g- What the..."

"What?"

She ripped something off the front of your board and crumpled it up, "Nothing. Just lies."

"Wh-"

"It's nothing." She'd said, but there was something behind her words that was dangerously close to fury. She tossed the note into the trash with a hint of finality.

"Th-thank you," you stuttered as she handed it back to you with a smile.

"It'll stop... eventually."

"What?"

She motioned vaguely with her hands, "The jokes, the teasing... the names."

"Names?"

Her eyes widened as if she'd known she said too much, "Oh, forget it."

But you couldn't. You just couldn't let it die. "What names?"

The look she gave you then was grim, and you wanted to squirm out of sight. She looked about ready to tell you that a distant relative of yours had met death, and something about that unsettled you. Though the irony was not lost on you. Death had become so everyday.

"They call you the queen of the dead."

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...

.

And that was essentially the end of you. Or so you thought. At the time you were horrified to find that they'd already come up with a name for you. After Jane left, you fished the note out of the trash, far too curious for your own good.

'Ice Bitch!'

That made no sense to you. Never once had you ever done anything to anyone here. You'd kept to yourself the best you could, only speaking when you were spoken to... just like a child. You experienced a plethora of emotions that evening: anger, confusion, embarrassment, sadness, and at one point, you'd even laughed at yourself.

But now you're not laughing.

As much as you don't want to admit it: the names bother you. You can't pinpoint exactly why, just that you're not too fond of them. So little so, you'd tried to take matters into your own hands for what you believe to be the first time in your life.

.

...

.

A couple days ago, you'd made your way to the bullpen in time to hear the tail end of a conversation you definitely were not supposed to hear. Not that either of them cared.

"... talks to dead bodies. I swear to god. What a freak right?" Detective Crowe said conspiratorially.

You stopped dead on your feet there and hid behind the wall. You knew enough about your social graces to stay the hell away from confrontation. What could you do? Stutter?

"Oh god, I know! And the way she talks... it's like... Like she thinks she's all high and mighty 'cause she's got a fancy title or somethin'," another detective said with a scoff.

"Yeah, yeah... But goddamn, she's a looker."

Detective Darren Crowe. He made up the nickname. You knew it right then and there that he was the source, the kingpin. The worst part was, if he wasn't so awful, you might have been attracted to him. He had that disheveled 'let me save you' look about him. Thick, dark hair, broad shoulders, and a strong jaw- all things that you used to find yourself drawn to in the past. But now it just made your stomach turn.

Something like rage filled you, pushing you into the room. You gave the men the best glare you could manage, but your heated stare rang only lukewarm in their eyes. Crowe broke out laughing. Laughing at you like some kind of circus act.

"Excuse me!" you'd said, but your anger did not back up your words. Instead, they came out shaky and useless.

"Man, didja hear that, Queenie?" He held his hands up in mock defense, "Don't stab me with your scalpel! I'm too pretty to die. Don't kill me..." His eyebrows rose as he gave you the most explicit once-over you'd ever received in your entire life, "You know what? Go ahead, babe. Take me."

His friend only laughed as the blood flushed to your cheeks. You wanted to cry. More than anything you wanted the tears to fall to relieve the pressure behind your eyes.

"Cut it out," a familiar voice sliced through the bullpen, shocking the pair into silence. You'd recognize that low-key voice anywhere.

"C'mon Rizzoli, we were jus' messin' around. You know that right, Queenie?"

You shook your head and looked to Jane. She offered only a brief smile before turning back to the other two, "Don't you two have somethin' better to do than harass our ME?"

"Wh-No... I mean yes," Crowe's friend said before practically running away.

Crowe, however, remained grounded. "What's your problem, dyke? We were jus' screwing around. It's not my fault Dr. Death over there can't take a joke."

Dr. Death was definitely a new one.

Jane's jaw clenched, but she let the comment slide for your sake, "Don't call her that, Crowe. C'mon, give her a break."

"Whatever." And with that, Crowe disappeared after his partner.

She'd disengaged Crowe. Without her interference, you would have been reduced to tears. You'd have to deal with the new rush of jokes and mockeries because you couldn't hold onto your composure. She'd saved you in a way. You'd never been more grateful in your life.

.

...

.

You shake all thoughts of Darren Crowe from your mind and instead opt for... really anything else.

Distraction.

You decide you need a distraction.

There's another corpse lying on your table, waiting for you to return her body to cold storage for the night. At just eighteen, Lisa Harland lost her life in a car accident en route to her family's home in Vermont. Each time you look at her, you feel your chest tighten. She had so much to live for. At her age you'd thrown yourself into your studies, not taking a spare moment to even breathe. She had the chance to live a fuller life than you ever did, and it'd been stolen from her just like that.

You leave your office and reach for your clipboard without looking. You already know it's not there. It's never there. Ever since that third day, it's never where you leave it. Some days it's up on that shelf, sometimes it's waiting on top of some equipment, and others, it's hanging by a cord attached to the fire sprinklers. No matter where it is, you're much too short to reach it.

Someone is having great fun toying with you, and you're fairly certain Crowe's got nothing to do with it. He's all about humiliation and ridicule. This is just some troublemaker that wants to see all sides of frustration come from you.

Today your clipboard rests on top of your equipment cabinets, propped up against the wall. You were intended to spot it right away. Intended to see immediately that it's far out of your reach. There's a knock on the glass door, and it takes you a second to register who's wanting to come in.

Jane.

You don't know why you're surprised. She's come in every single day since the first day it had been hidden.

"Hey, doc."

"Hello, Jane," you say warmly, happy to see her friendly face. Today has not been easy for you, and your mood automatically elevates when she walks into the room. Today she's wearing light grey slacks and a matching blazer over an olive green v-neck. She looks as powerful as ever.

You point up towards the top of the cabinets, and she chuckles, "Wow, that's a new spot."

"Yes. I can't imagine this little game holds any humor at this point."

"I dunno," she says, running a hand through her wild hair, "I think out of all the pranks, this is the most innocent one you could have got."

"I suppose so."

She stretches up on her toes and snatches the clipboard from its spot. You marvel at just how long she is. With her arms extended like that, the detective just goes on and on forever.

"Here ya go, doc," she smiles at you and you feel yourself sway on your feet.

Her dark eyes overpower your thoughts, and all you can think of is her. You picture her in your home of all places. She's sitting on your couch with a beer in hand screeching at an onscreen game. Her team scores and she stands, popcorn falling from her clothes. She cheers alone as you sit beside her still trying to understand the game.

You have no idea where the image came from, but something inside of you agrees with it.

Feeling a small surge of bravery, you correct her. "Maura. Please call me Maura."

"Um, okay. Maura." Her fingers rake through her hair again, and she stares at the floor. "So I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course."

.

...

Your days below BPD turn into weeks, then into months, and you finally begin to feel settled. You believe Crowe's transfer to Syracuse may have played a large role in that. Regardless, you feel at ease. Your nickname does not die down completely, but you pay it no mind. The faint traces of your royalty fill only the 'remember back when' jokes, but if they want to make you a queen of the deceased, then so be it.

But your clipboard never manages to stay quite where you left it. In the beginning, you thought it was one of the lab techs, but since then, each and every one of them has been replaced by another as techs are needed all over the state in places that demand their attention far more than a police department.

But one question remains: Who's hiding your clipboard?

You began to keep close tabs a few weeks ago as it doesn't seem to disappear on Fridays at all. But no matter how hard you try, you can never spot its captor. Though you have a pretty solid idea.

.

...

.

Right on time, Jane knocks on the glass door before stepping inside. She starts to scan the top of the room in search of it. You know she's just doing it for your benefit.

For you.

You cross your arms over your chest and try your hand at smirking, but judging by the confused look on her face, you've failed altogether.

"You okay?"

You shake your head, feeling a stupidly wide smile breaking across your face, "I know it's you."

She pales, "What's me?"

"You're the one who hides it."

"Wuh-me? No... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. "

"Nuh-uh."

"Oh, really? Every day you come here already knowing it's been taken."

She shoves her hands into her pockets, "So?"

"So it's you!"

"You don't know that," she says quietly. You can see just how much she's shrunk into herself, and you wish she wouldn't. You wish she could laugh with you, and maybe, just maybe she might like you.

"Okay, then explain to my why you don't come help me look for it on Fridays."

"That's easy," she says to the floor, "that's my day off."

"Yes, and coincidentally, that's the only day it doesn't go missing, Jane Rizzoli."

She flinches away from you, and you immediately curse yourself for your stupidity. Why on earth would you call her out on something like that?

"I'm sorry," she says faintly, "I won't do it again."

You shake your head, hands flying out to try to explain to her in their own crazy way that you don't resent the little prank. You've come to look forward to it each day. Okay, so maybe not so much it, but her. You want to see her every day.

"No, it's okay. It's okay!"

"I'll stop."

"Please, I wasn't asking you to stop... I just... I wanted to know why."

"Why what?"

"Why you hide it."

She drops her whole head down until she's looking completely at her shoes, her hair falling like a curtain between you.

"Why do you hide it?" you ask again. She mumbles something you can't quite hear. "What? I can't hear you."

"Because I like you!" she bursts so suddenly you nearly stumble.

"What?"

She sighs, "I wanted an excuse to talk to you."

You cannot believe the words as they fly out of her mouth. They shove you backwards until you find that you need to catch yourself or else risk falling. Your hands fly back to catch yourself, stomach twisting as your hand clutches the decedent's ankle. This time, Jessie Morgan, a twelve-year-old girl who drowned at a pool party. You almost couldn't do the autopsy.

"Talk to me?" you ask, righting yourself. "But why?"

She shrugs, "I like you, Maura. I just wanted to know you. At first, it wasn't me, but after I found that note... You know the one I threw away?"

You nod, "'Ice Bitch.'"

She sighs, "You weren't supposed to read it. That's why I threw it away."

"Morbid curiosity."

"Well anyway, after that I found out who wrote it." She laughs a little, "It wasn't that hard, but if you wanna formal apology, you're gonna have to track him down in Syracuse."

"Crowe?"

"One of his minions, actually. I figured you'd want to go to the source."

You pause for a moment, "You made him stop? How?"

"I won't get into that. He claimed he left for personal reasons, but between you and me, I think he was scared of crap might come out if he saw you again. I set him straight. Don't worry." She grins at you, and your heart swells.

"But why?" you hear yourself say again. She goes pale again, and you wonder when you're going to stop making her do that.

"Because I could see he was hurting you." She leans back against the other empty autopsy table, the look in her eyes hopeful.

You cannot wrap your head around this woman. Why would she do something so... You don't even know the word, and that's definitely not a common occurrence.

"Anyway... after that, I had got so used to helping you find it, I didn't want to stop seeing you. So I.. just kept sneaking down here while you were at lunch or locked away in your office."

You take a few steps towards her and place your hand on her arm. "You could have just talked to me."

"I know," she whispers, staring at your hand. "I... I guess I just didn't know what to say."

"And you think I would? Do I look like the type of person that has a life filled with friends?"

She flinches again, and you swear it's at your utterance of the word 'friends.' You don't know why you'd said it. The word tasted wrong in your mouth, and you desperately wanted to take it back. There was wishful thinking, and then there was that.

"I don't understand why you don't," she says after a long pause.

"What?"

She meets your eyes, "I don't understand why you don't have friends to fill every hour of your day. You're beautiful and smart an-"

"And a freak," you cut her off before she can take your composure.

"No," she says firmly. "You're not a freak."

"Yes, I am. I talk to corpses! I'm the queen of the dead... Dr. Death... Ice Bi-"

"No," she repeats with an intensity that scares you, but it's nothing compared to the feeling of her hands rising and gently resting on your cheeks. You didn't even realize tears had spilled from your eyes until she'd wiped them away with her hands. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that."

Seeking comfort, you act on impulse and reach out to the detective. You've never been one for contact with anyone. You didn't grow up with hugs or kisses, that just wasn't the kind of family you were brought up in. You grew up quiet and reserved, and incapable of expressing your feelings in understandable ways.

You sigh in contentment as she somehow interprets your gesture and pulls you into her. In the past, you've been held, but it's never felt quite like this. It was always to your dismay or annoyance. But never before has it felt so genuine.

"I'm sorry I didn't stop them earlier."

"No, it's okay. It's okay," you whisper, taking in the subtle lavender scent that clings to her clothing.

"I just watched it happen, Maura."

"It's okay," you repeat, unable to think of any other words. "It's okay."

.

...

.

It could have been five minutes of five hours later, you're not sure entirely. You'd lost track of her heartbeats a long time ago. Probably at the exact moment she'd rested her chin atop your head and tightened her arms around you as if she thought you'd be the one to evaporate.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" she asks finally.

"Yes," you mumble into her blazer, but make no effort to detach yourself from her.

She chuckles, and you can feel it move through both your bodies, "You're going to have to let go of me for a little."

"Right," you say, still not moving.

"Or we can go in a minute."

"Mmm, a minute."

You're not sure what it is you're feeling. You've been this close, and much, much closer to others. You're not even touching her skin much, yet your embrace feels so much more intimate than anything you've ever experienced. It's too much, and just enough all at the same time, and before your brain can reject the idea, you turn your head slightly, your lips just brushing the base of her neck.

She tenses and your brain finally kicks in. Panic grips you as you try to recount what you've done.

You kissed her. Sort of.

Frantic, you look up at her, "I'm, I-I'm... Jane, I'm s-"

She crushes her lips against yours with so much force you can feel it in your toes even though you know that's impossible. It takes you by surprise, but not enough to make you freeze. You return the kiss with everything you can manage, but it's chaste and far too short for your complete liking.

She pulls back and looks at you, fear flickers in her irises. "Was that okay?"

A laugh bubbles from somewhere deep within you, and before she can take it the wrong way, you pull her back down and capture her lips once again in the kind of kiss that should have been first. Your fingers slip into the wild mane of dark curls, and her arms tighten around you again.

It's truly perfect.

Save for the corpse directly behind you both.

Remembering Jessie Morgan, you break away from her. "Oh no!"

"What?" you can see the fear rise in her eyes once more.

"We kissed in front of a dead girl... twice."

"Um Maura, I don't think she noticed."

You shake your head, "I know that. The deceased should be treated with the utmost respect."

She nods in understanding, "Okay... What happened to her anyway?"

"She drowned," you say as you begin to zip up the bag that had been resting beneath her. "She was so young... It's heartbreaking, Jane."

You think that maybe she sees it. She sees the way you care so much about a lifeless corpse. Maybe Crowe was right, you are the queen of the dead, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. A queen rules with elegance and tact. She speaks for and of her people, and if she's a good one, she cares.

That sounds pretty good to you.

Jane watches as you return Jessie Morgan to the body fridge. Arrangements to release her to her family have been made for tomorrow. Her journey is nearly over, but yours is just beginning. "Goodbye, baby girl," you whisper, not at all caring if Jane hears you or not. You're not going to tone yourself down for anyone ever again.

"Ready?"

You extend your hand for her to take, and for a moment you think she's going to shy away. But she doesn't. She smiles brightly at you and takes your hand in hers.

Six months in Boston and you've finally found your beginning.