Disclaimers: Rizzoli & Isles belongs to Tess Gerritsen, Janet Tamaro, TNT, and the host of writers, producers, cast, and crew who create the show we love to watch. We are not any of those people.

Spoilers for everything, seasons one through three, but nothing really major. It stands alone.

I don't watch you while you sleep very often. Maybe it's because that's creepy, even for best friends, but seeing as I've already gotten a face full of your rack, and had my hand up your shirt adjusting a wire, I think the boundaries of our friendship are a little broader than most.

But here you are, sleeping, and here I am, watching you. Even though you said I should go home, that you were fine by yourself, that you were used to being alone, I felt guilty. You fell back asleep before I had to answer, so I stayed. I tried to leave an hour ago, and I actually made it to the door. When I looked back and saw you in the hospital bed, pale and as totally un-chic as you could possibly be, I turned around and sat back down. You shouldn't be alone.

I wish I could tell you what I'm thinking right now, about how sorry I am for everything that's happened. It's been a rough few years for the two of us, between my nightmares and yours becoming realities. I thought I lost you as a friend after what happened with your father, and then your mother, but somehow we managed to make it through to another day. We were- no, we are still us.

This is totally unlike that night in the woods, when I'd had to cut into your leg to save it (I really like your leg too). I spent much of that night terrified we'd both die, or that I'd killed you, and I didn't have the chance to watch your face. That was probably for the best. That night was a terrible night, except for when you decided we were friends again. And maybe the part where you sleep-talked in Morse code. That was pretty adorable.

Nothing's adorable right now. Your face is all twisted up in pain, but every time I ask the nurses about it, they say that the medication is fine, or you'd be awake. And you know I know exactly how being shot feels, so if you try that crap again about how it's not that bad when you wake up... No. You don't lie. You can't lie. Which means you've had hurts worse than this, and the very idea of that cuts me to the bone.

My hands flinch just thinking about that. I know pain. Physical pain. But you know mental anguish. You know agony of abandonment, and damn it, after last year I'm not doing that to you. Ever. I can't. This time, Maura, you don't get to tell me I need to leave, because I'm here for you. Because I love you.

Everyone knows, everyone sees it, and maybe they think I don't know, but I do. I know exactly why I like it when you hug me, but not when my own mother does. I know why I hate it when we fight. I know why sometimes we fight about the stupid things. It's so much easier to tease and torment each other than it is to wrap our hands around the big things, those hard feelings where we're gutted than we can't talk to each other.

I promised myself that I wouldn't let that happen again, so you can complain all you want, Maura, I'm not leaving your side.

I know this isn't my fault. You weren't even undercover, and Frankie swore up and down he cleared the scene. It was just another homicide, and the perp had to come back. We saw him, Barry and I did, and if we'd been a second faster, maybe we could have shot him before he shot at you and Vince. You didn't blame anyone when we got you in the ambulance. You kept asking if Vince was okay. He's fine. You're fine. You got shot, and all the doctors promise us there won't be any damage.

You laughed when I asked if you'd ever play the violin again. That laugh lifted the weight of a thousand worlds off my shoulders. That laugh told me you were going to be okay. That laugh chased away my terror of watch your face without your personality. God, that scared me to death, Maura. Right now, watching you sleep, I see you. That funny little wrinkle you get when you're annoyed with me for putting my feet on your coffee table is right there, asking me to sooth it away. I wish I knew how.

God, how much today sucked. This morning, Stanley's coffee was worse than normal, and when we skipped out to that little cafe you love, only to find out they were closed because they had no hot water. Then, before we could make it to the Starbucks, we had our first call. The dead pimp, killed by his own hooker, reminded you about how we met, which Korsak didn't know, and found hilarious.

The case was open and shut, so we went to lunch. Your vegetarian sandwich had bacon in it, my pasta was raw, and the hair... Ugh. You wouldn't let me shout at the manager, and we ended up grabbing food from Subway, because we had another case. This one looked to be a robbery homicide in a sporting goods store. By the time we got there, the guy wasn't dead after all, so we dumped the case on Robbery and went back to the precinct.

By the time we were ready to go home, or to the Robber, the call went up again. One more damned homicide. Frankie cleared the scene, a library of all places. I joked that the killer must have had an overdue book, and you said I was no Lenny Briscoe. I said you should be a little more like Dr. Rodgers. You gave me that adorably quizzical look, and I had to point out she was the coroner.

Then I left, laughing about your lack of pop culture, to check out the back. When Frost and I came back, we saw the kid. He was just a kid! A stupid, skinny little kid! We don't even know what he was doing, or why, because when he aimed that gun at you...

Korsak, like an idiot, stepped in front of you. I promise, he's fine. He swears its just a scratch, and Ma's in there with a chicken sandwich. She said the soup sloshed, and now she's asleep in Korsak's room. Which is why I still haven't had a decent cup of coffee today. Barry said he'd come back with something, but that was four hours ago. Cavanaugh came by, said that Barry would cover the case and I should stay. If I wanted. He knows me pretty well. Sometimes I wonder if he knows the way I think better than I do.

When you wake up, I know you'll ask me about that kid. It was a good shoot, if anyone can say that about killing a kid. He had a gun, he shot a cop and our ME, and Frost and I shot him. He's dead. There's no other way to say it, and now I have another death hanging over me. They visit me at night sometimes, the dead. The people I didn't save, the people I've killed. I try not to make excuses, or claim that it was anything other than killing them. I hate those weasel words people use to try and distance themselves from the job we do. We are, indeed, executioners. You had that right.

It's long past the time where a 'just good friend' would stay. I already did the part where I call all of your parents, even the one in prison, and tell them what happened, that you're going to be just fine. Paddy was the only one who found my joke about how you didn't actually need an appendix to be funny. Even my Ma yelled at me about that. You slept through all the phone calls, mumbling in your sleep about things I barely understand when I can hear them.

You look so miserable, I want to take your hand, but it wouldn't help, would it? It's all taped with IVs and some weird thing on your finger. You'd know what it is. I'm consoling myself with sitting here, in a chair that has had all its padding squished out by countless years of countless asses being parked in it, watching countless people in a hospital bed. I really hope that bed is more comfortable than this chair, Maura. It's probably not as comfortable as the bed in your house.

I wish that I had more memories of watching you sleep in the good times. It's not like when you meditate, I know that much. When you meditate, you're serene and calm. But when you sleep, I want to believe that you look like everything's washed away and you're the unguarded, beautiful best friend I adore. I can't remember what you really look like when you sleep, because all I see right now is that frown.

There's no one else here to stop me, so I take your hand. It looks more pale than normal. Your Irish skin is almost waxen. But when I take your hand, you sigh and the frown eases. That crease between your eyes fades a little. You know I'm here, that I'm always going to be here for you. Your fingers twitch under mine and when I gently squeeze them, you seem to relax.

I can't sleep. Wish I could, but if I close my eyes, I can see your eyes, wide and surprised, but not scared. You were angry at the kid. I'm angry at that kid. He was scared, and the gun jerked when he shot. He got off one shot, before Frost and I shot. We still don't know which shot was which, and I just don't care this time. Part of me cares that the kid is dead, and I'll count him as one of 'mine' no matter if it was me or Frost. Killing someone hurts worse than being shot. You know that you did something irrevocable.

That's why it hurt so much when you told me I was a judge, jury, and executioner. I wish you could know what it feels like, but at the same time I am so grateful that you'll probably never know. You're not a killer. I'm not a killer. But I kill. And I know if you had to, if the choice was you or the other guy, you could do it. If the choice was me or the other guy... I think you'd do it too.

Why does that comfort me at the same time it scares me? I know you're a badass, though not the way you think you are. I know and love that you're brave and strong. But the idea of you killing someone to save me feels like it would upset our careful little world balance. It's so precarious, we've had so many fights, ones I thought we'd never get back from. And then miracle happened, we nearly died and now we're friends again, but in a different way. Things are more tense. We can't make the same jokes anymore, or comment the same way on each other's love life. Mine was vile and washed over into your life, but do you have to date those guys?

I mean, come on, Maura. Those guys are dull as dishwater. They're just guys to pass the time. I wish... I should just tell you how I feel about you. I will. Because I have to. I can't not tell you and not have you here. I already know what it feels like to not have you around. There's a void, an emptiness. Gutted. I know what it's like to have parts missing, or shot out, and the vacancy of you from my life aches more than my hands do in winter.

I don't regret letting you in. You're one of the best things that has ever happened to me. From that moment it felt safe at your house, even with that stupid tortoise, I knew there was no turning back. This was the way I had to be. Just like the first time I saw a Sox game, I knew I was going to love baseball forever. Every time I step inside your house, doesn't matter if it was the old one or the new one, I know I'm safe.

Remember when I was so spooked about Hoyt I could't sleep, and you came over and held my gun to protect me? You didn't look bad-ass, but you eased my heart. I knew you'd never let anyone hurt me, and I appreciate that more than you could know. So when I said I'd never leave your side, that's what I meant, and that's why I'm here. It's my turn again. My turn to protect you.

Finally, hours and hours have passed, the sun is rising, and I'm still here when your eyes open. You smile, it's that soft smile I know so well, and look at the machines. Then you look at your hand. The hand I'm holding. And you look at me.

I try to think of how to tell you those simple words. I love you. Now, with you looking up at me, smiling, I know you know. You say nothing. We smile. I squeeze your hand, you move so you can squeeze mine back, and I know. I know. You look at me, as if I have to say nothing, that we're fine, but I know I need to say this.

"I love you, Maura."