Thank you to everyone who followed my first story and took the time to review it. If you haven't read Primum non nocere, you should. It can be found on this site. Read it first, as this won't make sense if you don't.

Now, onward.

Walking stiffly down the corridor, I hear a faint noise behind me, audible over the muffled clicks of my heels on the scuffed vinyl floor.

A glance over my shoulder shows nothing out of the ordinary and I chastise myself for being so hyper vigilant. Lately, I have understood how a gazella thomsonni, more commonly known as a Thomson's gazelle, must feel. The most common gazelle to roam the African plains, it is an exceptionally alert creature both to sound and movement. This constant state of hyper vigilance assists the gazelle in its daily fight against its main predators, including cheetahs, leopards, lions, and hyenas.

However, I am not a prey animal being stalked by something hidden in the grass. While hyper vigilance can certainly be helpful in a life or death situation, I have no time for it in my daily life. Work has been increasingly busy, as the quickly approaching holiday season always results in a spiked increase in the number of family-related violence and suicides.

I have also had more than my fair share of motor vehicle versus cyclist related tragedies. The lovely weather of Boston's spring and summer season encourage motorists to leave their cars at home and venture to work on bicycles. However, Boston streets are not designed with bike paths. Biking around the city, especially during rush hour, is quite dangerous. Factor in our typical rainy fall weather, with slippery leaves now clogging the roadways and less than optimal visibility during the evening commute and the results are downright deadly. For the cyclists, that is. Traumatic, but non-life-threatening for the motorist.

Perhaps it is the increase in number of bodies to examine combined with the general fatigue I am feeling due to the extended work hours has resulted me feeling more on edge than usual. Or, it could be the fact that I have had the peculiar notion that someone may be following me.

I'm not sure how else to explain it. I haven't seen some dark figure lurking in the shadows, or received any threats. Still, as I make my way to the elevator, my hand tightens on the grip of my pepper spray hidden in the pocket of my coat.

Jane laughed at me when I told her I applied for a permit to carry the spray, as she could have just given me a bottle with no questions asked. I understand that studies have shown that it is useless in some attacks; and it doesn't necessarily make me feel any safer, but lately I've kept it at the ready religiously whenever I'm alone.

I know Jane wonders why I've been so jumpy lately, and I wish I had an explanation myself. I can't seem to shake the feeling that something is out of the ordinary –it's just a feeling I have had.

Intuition. It's something I never allowed myself to feel. Intuition often defies logic, which never made sense to me. Nothing can defy logic. The notion that something could is contradictory to the definition of logic itself.

Before Jane, I was practically married to logic, metaphorically speaking – of course. However, the more time I spend with her, the more I am fascinated by the way she allows her intuition to play a major role in both her professional and personal life. She is able to hone into her intuition to solve cases quicker and more effectively than other detectives, as well as read my moods and counterbalance them to maintain order in our home.

I have been trying to explore my own intuition. It is not an easy process for me; I tend to overthink things so much that I am left with a snippet of intuition that is most certainly influenced by logic. However, I am making progress.

As I reach the elevator, I catch a glimpse of Dr. Welch in his office across the hall. He bent over his desk, scrawling on what seems like an endless stack of paperwork. He will surely work until darkness falls tonight, and most likely through the weekend. If he was better able to manage his time instead of ogling his new assistant, he's surely would have been able to finish his case load by this evening.

Internally, I chant what I know about intuition as I enter the elevator.

Intuition is used to describe anything that comes to mind quickly, without much reflection. Taken from the Latin word 'intueri', which translates "to look inside or contemplate," intuition is often a belief or thought that we cannot justify. Henceforth, intuition has been the subject of study in psychology, been accredited to innovation in scientific discoveries, as well as a topic of interest in the supernatural.

I hear another noise, this time closer. It sounds like slap of a finely-crafted boot heel hitting the floor.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. The medical professional inside of my brain explains that it is a natural reaction of the sympathetic nervous system and is triggered an environmental or emotional stressor – the "fight or flight response," so to speak.

Clearly, I am being irrational. I have no logical reason to suspect anyone is actually following me and I am undoubtedly overreacting to hearing a noise in the hallway.

Still, I cannot prevent my hand from tightening around the pepper spray and, much to my horror, I watch myself bring it out of my pocket, flip off the safety switch and am it at the open elevator doors.

No one appears. Sighing in relief, my trembling hand finally submits to my control and securely latches the spray before dropping it back into my pocket.

The soft thud it makes at it hits the bottom of my coat resonates loudly in my ears. I have never felt so embarrassed in my life, and I am glad that no one else observed my foolish actions.

I stand there with the doors open for several seconds, frozen with both embarrassment and relief. It then registers to me that in the reflection of Dr. Welch's office window there is indeed a woman standing in the hallway just outside the elevator doors; out of my range of visibility from inside the elevator car.

Rationally, I know that I should call out to her as ask her if she's getting in. Instead, I hit the "Door Close" button over and over, at first gently, but the elevator doesn't comply. I frantically jam the button until the doors finally lumber shut.

Closing my eyes, I swallow. Exhaling, I am surprised to feel my chest tighten and tears instantly well in my eyes. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I urge the elevator to reach the third floor, and Jane.

Who is she? From her reflection, I noticed that she's in her mid-to-late 50's and was dressed impeccably. Stylish leather boots, slim-fitting Vera Wang trousers, and a Burberry trench coat a few shades darker than the one I have slung over my arm.

I wasn't able to get a good look at her face, as even in my hyper vigilant state, I was paying more attention to her clothes. Ridiculous, I admit.

Arriving at the third floor, the doors finally open and I'm rewarded with the stale smell of cheap cologne and burned coffee. I stride eagerly to Jane's desk, anxious to see her and regain a sense of calmness and clarity. I distractedly wave hello to a few detectives that greet me as I round the corner to arrive at Jane's spot, just to find it empty.

I glance around and see no sign of her. No jacket haphazardly slung over her chair. No messy papers, random case files, or crumpled up notes littering her desk. No keys left dangling irresponsibly from her locked drawer. The only sign of her is a half-full cup of Dunkin's coffee now sitting cold on her desk. One look at the color confirms my suspicion of why it wasn't finished. Jane takes her regular coffee with two cream and two sugars. This coffee clearly has more cream than she prefers.

Disappointed, I gracefully drop down into her chair and sit primly with my legs folded underneath me and set my bag in my lap. I made the mistake once of putting my new Hermés Birkin purse down on the floor on this level and was rewarded with several unsightly stains as the result. Very different from the cleanliness I demand from the janitorial staff in charge of the morgue.

Minutes tick by and there is still no sign of Jane. I decide to send her a quick text message as I am growing more and antsier to leave for the day and put my foolish near-encounter with the mystery woman behind me.

My phone chimes and I smile when I read Jane's text.

"Friggin meeting dun soon XOXO."

One skill that Jane clearly lacks is the ability to form complete sentences or spell properly when texting.

Bored and still feeling that I'm being overly-attentive to my surroundings, I look for something to count to calm myself. Meaningless counting is one of my many self-soothing exercises.

I count 937 flecks in the laminate surface of Jane's tidy desk before I hear a low voice behind me. It is as warm as a sun-drenched room and I can feel the affection resonating in its low timbres.

"Maur?"

I turn and give her a weak smile. She grins at me and brushes a strand of hair back from my face.

"What's so fascinating about my desk?" Her eyes narrow and I know she knows something is wrong.

Intuition.

Clearing my throat, I give her my best smile. "Nothing." I tell her innocently. "I was just admiring the color of the laminate. I've never actually been able to see it as it's always a mess."

"Ha." She rolls her dark eyes at me. It's amazing to me how well her eyelashes stand out despite her defiance to wearing any kind of eye makeup. "You're hilarious. Hope you enjoyed it, as you won't see it look like this again until the fire marshal's inspection next year." She grins evilly before flopping down the huge stack of papers and folders she holds in her arms onto her desk, almost upsetting the cold coffee. Shrugging off her jacket, she throws it down on top of the last bare spot of the desk before rummaging around in her drawer until she finds a rubber band. She places it in her teeth and pulls her hair back with her long fingers while grumbling about her meeting.

"Pain in the ass meeting kept me late today. Budget cuts, blah blah, milking the system, blah blah, overuse of personal time, blah blah, and typical bullshit. Poor Frost and Korsak are still in there trying to explain why they had $80 in meal expenses in two days. Idiots parked outside of Mike's Pastry and gorged themselves while they were supposed to be investigating that North End murder while I was on my bed rest."

Finally done with her hair, she grins at me. "Any idiot knows that Modern is the only pastry shop that fills each cannoli fresh to order each time. Chefs at Mike's are bums and they always freeze them. Pop won't even go to Mike's anymore; he knows Ma will kill him if he brings home pre-frozen cannoli."

She sounds just like her father, and I can't help but smile as I imagine a small Jane tagging along with Frank through the bustling streets of the North End on a mission to fetch the perfect cannoli.

Jane pulls Frost's chair away from his desk and sits in it backwards, resting her long arms on the seat back. Her eyes study mine. A long tendril of her wavy hair escapes it's confinement and drops down, swaying gently. I focus on it, wondering how anyone's natural hair color can consist of seven distinct shades of brown. Jane obviously has a high concentration of brown eumelanin in addition to red pheomelanin; which is highly unusual, but very beautiful. I love to see how the color of her hair changes with the light in our room. When we first wake up, the early morning light leaves her hair bathed in an amber glow. In the bright blue skies of the autumn afternoons, her hair appears dark – almost black. But it is now – sunset – when I love her hair the most. The pink and purple skies create a rich auburn aurora.

"Whassa matter?" She asks quietly, her hands fidgeting with the ripped vinyl of the seat back. I know she wants to take my hands into hers.

I remain quiet for several seconds, my eyes locked on hers. Can she really read my mind? I've asked this to myself time and time again since we started our relationship. I've never been able to come up with a conclusive answer.

"We need to talk." I tell her softly. "Nothing is actually wrong, I am just concerned about some feelings I've been having and my reactions to them."

I can see confusion in her eyes as I continue. "It has nothing to do with us."

She gives me a small smile, and I can tell by the way her body relaxes that she understands.

"C'mon. Let's get out of here. I've had enough of this place for the day." Jane stands up, kicking Frost's chair back to its rightful place.

Then, despite the ever-watchful eyes of the department gossips, Jane does something that I do not expect. She reaches her hand down to help me up, and once I'm standing next to her, places a tender kiss to the top of my head.

I feel my face flush, but Jane takes it all in stride. While the other detectives collectively gasp, Jane slings her jacket under her arm, and wraps an arm around my shoulders as she leads me to the elevators.