It'd been nearly a year since her last crime scene. It was hard to believe for anyone who knew the savvy, level-headed, sharp Detective Jane Rizzoli. The top of her class out of the Academy, the youngest officer to be promoted to detective, and the first female to be assigned to the Boston PD's vice division. Anyone in the department who saw her in action, who saw her climb the ranks, knew the gangly, lithe Italian girl who never wore make-up and sprinted like an Olympian was going run the whole damn show one day. That or make the Feds.

But after the last eight months, that Jane Rizzoli seemed long gone. The new Jane Rizzoli was twenty-nine years old and working at a desk. She was reassigned to the cyber unit after over three years on vice. No one knew why she requested it. No one knew what happened in Cavanaugh's office that day. All they knew was when Jane Rizzoli came back from leave, she wasn't the same young detective who inspired hope. She was a ghost.

The phone call came in the middle of the night. Jane wasn't asleep. She was wide eyed and jittery, bouncing her leg up and down as she watched infomercials. An empty bottle of Jack Daniel's and a collection of beers littered her coffee table. The rest of the apartment was a mess of clothes and unwashed dishes, lots of pizza boxes and random pieces of sporting equipment. On the third ring she grabbed the phone from the crack of her worn couch and sighed.

"What do you want?" Jane asked. "I'm off the clock."

She stiffened with anger when she heard a fresh, young voice on the other end. "We have a body in Southie," he told her. "We need you Jane."

It was the fourth time in two months they'd try to pull her back into the chase. The fourth time that the victim was too similar, the situation reminiscent of the other cases.

"I don't do that anymore," Jane growled. "How many times do I have to tell you, Frost?"

She was already searching the coffee table, knocking over a few cans and straining her eyes to see under the blue light of the television screen.

"It's not by my request" he said. "This is from the chief."

Without warning Jane hung up on him. She furiously kicked off a few cans from the table, just for the sensation. As the aluminum toppled to the floor, she suddenly spotted what she was looking for. Glowing like a Godsend in the scarce light, she snatched the small baggie of white powder.

Her agile hands hurried to dump out a small portion onto the coffee table. She took out a credit card, a dollar bill, and separated two neat lines. She snorted the first with her left nostrils and the next with her right. The coke burned through her nose, stinging her eyes and tingling throughout her face.

But the high was worth the temporary pain. It was like seven cups of coffee and a shootout. She felt sudden ease in her usually tired, weighted head.

Now Jane could do anything. That's what she told herself. She needed it. It was the only way to get through.

She pulled on jeans and grabbed a jacket. If they were going to call her out in the middle of a night for a division she wasn't even a part of, Jane was going to do it on her terms. She filled up an empty water bottle with vodka, snatched up her keys, and stumbled out with her badge.

It was a short drive to Southie. Jane remembered the neighborhood well. It was the working-class Irish side of town. She used to work it back when she was running operations for Vice. Back when she started the mess that haunted her. Driving the streets again, high off her ass and drunk was a familiar, somehow comforting sensation. It almost seemed like the only way anyone could get through the rundown, crime ridden streets.

Jane pulled to the curb when she saw the red and blue lights. They surrounded the mouth of an alleyway, already marked off with yellow tape and crowded with patrol officers who had nothing better to do on the night shift. Jane chugged a generous portion of liquor and checked herself in the mirror. Her eyes were lazy and tired. She still hadn't dinner so the high came hard and fast. She grabbed her water bottle and checked to make sure her trusty baggy was still in her jacket and then with a few stumbling steps she crossed the street and approached the scene.

Her first scene in almost a year.

Jane didn't realize it until she was out in the cold, yellow tape ahead. She could still turn back. The option teased her and she even looked behind her to check her car as if the dented, rusted Jeep could give her an answer. But now that she was here, now that she could hear the sirens, feel the anxiety, her curiosity won. It was in her blood. It was in her pulse. The distant memories and feelings of a younger, stronger, more confident Jane Rizzoli suddenly gained momentum.

"This is a crime scene, ma'am," the uniformed officer warned.

She scowled. She couldn't believe she let it get to this. They didn't recognize her anymore. She was no longer the dominating, illusive Jane Rizzoli. She was a nobody in the cybercrimes division. Before she could explain or pull out her badge, Detective Barry Frost came over.

"She's with us," Frost said.

He pulled up the yellow tape and offered to help her under but Jane rudely avoided him.

"I didn't think you'd actually show up," Frost told her.

Jane knew of Barry Frost. He was a young, fresh-faced detective, always asking her questions whenever he spotted her at the precinct. He was star struck by the youngest detective in BPD history, determined to learn from the great. But Jane was hardly great. And she despised him for his eagerness, for his positivity.

"Did the Chief really ask me to be here?" Jane asked.

Frost answered her but Jane didn't listen. She was too occupied bringing her steps to a halt in front of the body. It wasn't so much a body as a large mass hidden beneath a white sheet, but it meant the same to Jane.

She instantly fell into a long avoided trance. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. The vodka, the coke, the cigarettes and pills did nothing to numb her. It was all the bodies. The first body as a detective when she puked behind a tree and hid from her male counterparts. She remembered the most gruesome of crimes. The mangled bodies dumped in alleyways. Children stabbed by parents, blood on walls, multiple victims, bullet holes, overdoses, and severed limbs. Jane Rizzoli was out of practice. More morbidly, she wondered why she ever got into the practice in the first place.

Frost was still chattering as she finally forced herself to take a step toward the body. The medical examiner was collecting samples and glared as she invaded his space. Jane ignored him, crouching down next to the corpse. She could feel Frost hovering above her and the other cops watching. Large spotlights had been wheeled into illuminate the alley. An artificial white glare sparkled on the traffic in and out of the scene.

She carefully reached out and rather than proceeding with caution, Jane lifted the sheet quickly like a Band-Aid from a cut. The color struck her first. So familiar, so foreboding. The chilling, unnatural hue of a corpse, deprived of blood and life. Jane couldn't see everything she needed. She identified him as a male in his twenties. He was taken by the violent, hasty work of a knife. Large wounds in the soft places, smaller thrusts from rage. He'd died from blood loss. Rigor mortis had set in at his head and in his upper body. She swallowed back the taste of vomit.

With just a few moments examination, Jane realized why they'd called her there.

"He wasn't killed here. They dumped the body. He's been dead at least…"

"Twelve hours," Frost finished for her.

She carefully stood, wobbling on her legs from the drinking and stiffness of her joints. Frost reached to steady her but Jane resisted his aid. His previously cheery face became a little more somber.

"Did you see the…"

"Yeah," Jane cut him off this time. "Where's the Chief?"

"Here," he announced. Sean Cavanaugh looked tired under the evening light. It wasn't often he came out to crime scenes. He was typically cleaning up their messes with administration. He eyed Jane with a furrowed brow and cleared his throat.

"Thanks for coming Rizzoli," he said.

"Didn't think I had much of a choice," Jane said.

"What do you see?" he asked.

Jane swayed as she stood between Frost and Sean. Her wavy brown hair flapped with a breeze and calmed the nauseous heat in her face and mouth. She clung desperately for the lingering buzz, for any feeling of lightness. But she was plummeting down to Earth faster than she thought possible.

"I think it's a message. Someone wanted you to find the body. They wanted a scene. The wounds are consistent with premeditated homicide. The body was likely moved in a vehicle. The postmortem lividity is inconsistent and sporadic," Jane recited the facts like a young cadet, face blank, voice withdrawn.

"See," Cavanaugh muttered. "She's still got it."

"You don't have to convince me," Frost smirked.

Before Jane could ask for dismissal, Cavanaugh grimly put his hands on his hips in a show of authority. His gray hair gleamed from the previous rainfall. "I want you as a consultant on this case," Cavanaugh told her. "You'll be working with Detective Frost…"

"No," Jane refused. "I'm on the cyber detail. I don't do homicide."

Cavanaugh hitched his jaw like a furious father. He made brief eye contact with Frost before grabbing Jane by the crook of her arm and dragging her off down the alley. With the lights and officers out of earshot, Cavanaugh let go of her.

"Don't make me do this," Jane requested.

"You are the only person at this department with this level of experience. I've let you go for the last six months. But this if four, maybe five victims by the same hand. We're looking at a serial killer…"

"You don't know that for sure," she insisted.

"We both do," Cavanaugh glared. His eyes looked like onyx jewels in the evening light making Jane shudder. He leaned in closer. "I kept you on this force for one reason."

"You promised me the cyber detail!" Jane shouted.

Her voice scraped louder than she expected and a few officers glanced their way. Cavanaugh lowered his brow and gritted his teeth. "I've turned my head Rizzoli. You don't think I realize? You're either trashed or high off your ass twenty out of twenty-four hours a day. Do you even want to be a cop anymore? Huh?"

Jane swallowed hard. She faltered and grabbed onto the brick wall with her left hand, still facing Cavanaugh but forced to drop her gaze to the pavement. She wanted more coke. God she wanted more vodka and more coke. That's all she could think of. She should have had an answer. Two years ago she would have had an answer. That the uniform, the honor, and duty was all she lived for. A vow more important than wedding vows or family or love. But now even that took a backseat. A backseat to the desire in her chest for more.

"What do you want Rizzoli?" Cavanaugh growled. When she stayed silent, he slammed his palm onto the rusty, metal dumpster nearby. His gold wedding ring clanged against the surface. Jane shot up, allowing him at least her attention. He pointed an angry finger at her face. "You're going to consult on this case. You're going to help Frost solve it or you turn in your badge tomorrow. I'm done doing favors for you."

Jane watched as he walked off, ignoring the rest of the officers and forensics on the scene who stared back at her. She shivered in her rain jacket. Her sneakers were soiled from rain. Her jeans were damp. She felt out of place among the uniforms and suits. She was haggard and old and unenthusiastic. Jane sighed, leaned back against the wall, and chugged half of the vodka left in her bottle. She was so intent on the task that she hardly noticed Barry Frost joining her.

"Hey," he said.

"Christ!" Jane hissed.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," Frost replied. He leaned next to her. "I'm glad to have you working with me."

Jane shook her head.

"I told you no enough times that you sucked Cavanaugh's dick to get me to help you?" Jane asked.

Frost tightened his jaw, staring out at the lights with her, watching as their victim was lifted into a hearse. "I don't know what I ever did to make you hate me, Rizzoli," he said.

"Never respected a detective who couldn't handle their own case," Jane snarked. It was a ridiculous accusation. The force was about teamwork after all. But it was a quick reason to hate Frost.

"I just know when to ask for help, Rizzoli," he said. Frost looked her up and down. "You should try it sometime."

The twenty-six year old detective started on a walk toward one of the empty patrol cars that surrounded the yellow tape. Jane had a mind to end it there. She could put in a resignation tomorrow. But she'd crawl back. She'd have no job. No reason to get up.

"You coming?" Frost called to her.

Jane stomped to join him at the car. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Hospital. The other victim still had a pulse," he told her.

Her mouth involuntarily dropped and Frost smiled. The car ride was short and Jane didn't say a word. She stared out the rain beaded window as Frost took them across town.

"It's a couple," Frost spoke up.

Jane didn't acknowledge him, determined to continue her stubborn distance.

"The girlfriend is in a coma. Just a student at Boston Cambridge. Her family is all the way in California. I can't think why someone would want to target them," Frost muttered.

She finally glanced over at him, pushing the hair out of her dilated, drunk eyes. Jane didn't care if he saw it anymore. She was being forced onto the case and she'd decided very quickly that's as far as she'd go. Still, Jane couldn't help but toy with the young detective.

"Who says anyone wanted to take them out? Maybe they were just easy. Young and stupid." Jane suggested.

"The killer went through the effort of transporting them to the alley," Frost muttered.

He stared ahead, brown eyes straining in frustration, as though he was tumbling over the possibilities with hatred. Frost possessed a boyish, soft face. Jane decided it was because he hadn't been on the job long enough. He hadn't yet been hardened. Soon that would all go away. That's what she told herself. It made her happy to think of him one day calloused and depressed like her. Misery loved company.

"He's playing with you," Jane told him. "You're young. It's too easy."

Frost glanced over. "Not that much younger than you. You started around my age."

"I'm almost thirty," Jane reminded him. "And I started in Narcotics. Not a cushy, homicide gig."

They pulled up to St. Vincent's Hospital and Jane nearly smiled to herself. She would make Frost's life miserable. So miserable he'd beg Cavanaugh to take her off the case. He parked the squad car along the curb and reached into the backseat. He handed her a navy blue windbreaker with POLICE written on the back in yellow letters.

"Wear this," Frost said. "You look like shit. And you smell like vodka."

She ripped the jacket out of his hands and waited until he left the car. In truth, she was grateful for the change of wardrobe. It was hard to act like a cop when between highs, so she might as well look the part. Jane scrambled to switch jackets and while Frost was visible through the clear sliding doors of the hospital, she quickly fished out her wallet and dabbed her nose with a fresh sniff of powder.

Jane trembled as she stepped out of the car. Adrenaline pumped through her, hitting her just as intensely as the last time. Her heart skipped a beat on her way through the hospital doors, causing her breath to hitch and her to blink back nerves. Frost stared at her suspiciously, before waving her to the elevator.

After riding up seven floors to the ICU, Jane and Frost approached the door with a uniformed officer posted outside. Frost nodded at the man who hesitantly stepped aside to let them in, leering at Jane as she passed.

"This is Lori," Frost said gently.

Jane closed the door behind them, doing her best to ignore the dizzy spell that washed over her as she jerked her head to look at him.

"She studies American History," he continued. "She's twenty-two. Wants to be a teacher. Has two brothers at home."

The woman was frail and unmoving in the hospital bed. A number of tubes were plugged into her, filling her nose and wrists and stomach. Her face was already purple with bruises and scrapes. She was wrapped in bandages beneath her thin gown, completely mangled from the bastard who decided to attack her and her boyfriend.

"She's been with her boyfriend since they started college," Frost muttered.

He kept his arms folded across his chest, a frown pulling down at his hairless face. His arms filled out his blazer, stretching the material to its seams. Jane could see the hurt in his eyes as he studied Lori.

"You can't talk about her like that," Jane told him.

"What?" Frost asked.

"She's a victim."

"She's still alive," Frost said. "She's not just a body."

Jane shook her head. The room moved in circles again at the abrupt movement and she closed her eyes momentarily before speaking. "That's not what I mean. You're going to get too close. And you're going to get hurt."

Her chest pulsed with sudden pain but pride kept her from reacting. Jane pulled in a shallow breath, slightly panicked to find the air resistant to fill her chest. She leaned against the wall by the white board with diagnosis information and doctor's notes while Frost took a few steps closer to the side of the bed. He rested his hand on Lori's heart monitor, keeping his eyes steady on the comatose woman.

"Is that what happened to you?" he asked Jane. "Did you get too close?"

The tight pull around her heart was too strong for her to answer right away. She sipped for air and swallowed down further anxiety. "Not like you think," she told him.

Behind them the door opened and bustling through with purpose was a woman in a white lab coat. She seemed unfazed by the police presence, not even uttering a word as she grabbed the clipboard at the end of the bed. Whether from the coke, the pain in her heart, or the woman's beauty, Jane lost her breath. She couldn't speak so Frost cleared his throat first.

"How's she doing?" he asked.

"She coded twice during surgery. I was able to stop the internal bleeding but she sustained significant damage to her kidney and the spinal cord was punctured. She's too unstable now to try to repair any of that. Right now it's a matter of fighting infection and waking from the coma," the doctor explained.

The woman was petite and slender. Dark gold hair was tied behind her head, revealing perfect cheek bones and full lips. Her eyes were smart and hazel. Jane couldn't take her gaze off the woman.

"You're her surgeon?" Frost asked. He stepped forward with confidence, offering a large hand. "I'm Detective Barry Frost. I'm running her case."

"Dr. Isles. I'm running her case too," she introduced herself in a clipped, dry manner. "I'm not fond of the police presence. You get in the way of my job. And to be honest, I think that's the only case that matters right now."

Jane would have scoffed if it wasn't for the constant palpitations in her heart. It'd been going on for over three minutes and for the first time she was beginning to worry. She could hardly breathe in the spinning room.

"Lori's health is our priority as well," Frost assured. "The sooner we can collect information about her condition and the wounds she's sustained…"

"It's hospital policy to cooperate with all police investigations," Dr. Isles told him. "You'll get what you need. But she's a patient before she's a victim. And that won't take a backseat to me doing what I need to do to save her life."

Frost gave a nervous, childish chuckle. "I think we're misunderstanding each other, Dr. Isles. I'm not trying to jeopardize your care of Lori," he said. The tension in the room made him seek assistance. "Right Jane?"

For the first time the attention was directed at the silent brunette and both Frost and Dr. Isles were taken back. Jane was hunched over, hands on her knees, gasping desperately for air. "I can't breathe," she told them.

"What? Are you okay?" Frost asked. He stepped toward her but Dr. Isles was already at her side.

"My heart," Jane hissed. "It's going too…fast."

The lights were dimming. The floor blurred beneath her and her heart pounded as though she were being chased. She did her best to stay calm. She'd had anxiety before. But this pain, this speed was different.

"Have you been having chest pains?" Dr. Isles asked her.

Jane nodded, unable to speak. Dr. Isles pressed a stethoscope to her back and then did her best to reach around to press it to her chest. When Jane attempted to straighten back up onto her feet, she nearly collapsed from lightheadedness. Though small, Dr. Isles was strong and managed to keep Jane from completely collapsing before Frost came over to help. He steadied Jane on her feet while Dr. Isles got her first look at Jane's face. Her brow creased with worry.

"I'm going to get a nurse," she announced. "I think you may be experiencing an arrhythmia."

"A what?" Frost asked.

It took extreme perseverance – or perhaps stubbornness – for Jane to stay on her feet. Her heart was going so fast that she was certain it would rupture from her chest or send her into cardiac arrest. She shook and hyperventilated, nearly passing out a second time when the wheelchair was brought into the room. Frost and a nurse slowly helped to lower her down as Dr. Isles took charge.

"I want an EKG started immediately," Dr. Isles barked.

"Is she going to be okay?" Frost asked, attempting to follow them into the hall.

"I'll let you know," she told him.

Even weeks later, after the incident was behind her, Jane Rizzoli could hardly put together the pieces of what happened after she left Lori's room under Dr. Isles care. All she could think about was getting her breathing back. Her vision tunneled, moved in and out, and suddenly she was in a hospital bed, the gorgeous surgeon back in front of her.

"Jane can you hear me?" she asked. A light was shining back and forth in front of Jane's eyes, causing her to squint as she came to. "Jane?"

"What?" Jane said hoarsely.

"Do you know where you are?" Dr. Isles asked.

Jane glanced around, confused of whether she'd passed out or fallen asleep or was having a nightmare. She swallowed hard and sighed. "Hospital," she replied.

For the first time she noticed the wires dangling from her chest. Her shirt was gone and replaced by a hospital gown which allowed for easier access to the electrodes attached to her chest and arms. Dr. Isles glanced at the machine next to them, studying the ream of paper that continuously shot out from the device.

"What happened?" Jane asked.

"You had a heart arrhythmia. It means your heart was beating at an abnormal speed, in your case too quickly, threatening cardiac arrest," Dr. Isles explained. Her hazel eyes were narrowed and intelligent, intimidating the tired and still buzzed Jane. "We gave you a sedative and an antiarrhythmic shot. You appear to be stabilizing."

"I'm going to be okay?" she asked.

Dr. Isles pursed her lips and looked back down at the paperwork. The lines were drawn quickly, showing the pace of Jane's heart. "I have a few questions for you, Detective Rizzoli," Dr. Isles started.

Jane swallowed hard. She could already anticipate the interrogation. She could already feel the disdain in the doctor's eyes. The doctor who didn't know anything about her. No one truly knew.

"What substances were you taking tonight?" Dr. Isles asked.

The words were rather cold, dry and matter of fact, much like when she entered Lori's room and met Frost earlier. Jane tightened her jaw and remained silent. She avoided the doctor's imploring hazel eyes, desperate to avert the judgment. She wasn't ready to face it. Not ready to face herself.

"It's important that you're honest," Dr. Isles said. "This isn't something to shake off. This is your heart and we've already ran blood tests…"

"Coke," Jane blurted out. She ran a hand up to her forehead and pinched between her eyebrows. "I was doing cocaine."

The confession hung heavy in the hospital room. Jane breathed slowly, suddenly realizing the tube beneath her nostrils. She was grateful for the extra help with oxygen. The words sounded strange to her own ears. She was ashamed. She was embarrassed. Here, in this hospital room, nearly giving herself a heart attack, she was vulnerable. Jane couldn't remember the last time she felt so raw.

"Anything else?" Dr. Isles asked.

Jane suppressed the urge to glare or curse. She kept her face hidden behind her palm and gave a low answer. "Alcohol. I drink a lot," Jane whispered.

"And how long have you been using cocaine? How often do you use it?" Dr. Isles prodded.

She asked the questions so scientifically, with such little feeling, that Jane felt like a failure. She was no better than the crooks. Than the drug dealers she tracked down in vice. The judgment was there, heavy in Dr. Isles' voice. Jane didn't know why it hurt her so badly. Perhaps because all her life, Jane did everything she could to be hard. To not listen to the jokes or the words. Even as she became older and achieved her dreams, became the best rookie cop out of the BPD, the nagging insults were still there. This felt just as bad.

"It's not like you think," Jane muttered.

Dr. Isles waited a beat. "I'm sorry?" she whispered.

"They put me on vice when I was twenty-four," Jane said suddenly. She didn't know where the words came from but they were organic and confident. There was no stopping them. The hand dropped from her face and she stared ahead at the blank wall, ignoring the burn of Dr. Isles' eyes on her cheek. "I was the first female to make vice. Youngest to make detective. I don't say that to brag. I say that because I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready at all. I was too eager. I was stupid and young."

She shook her head at the memory. She remembered her mother sobbing. Warning her against the choice. Not only was it bad enough to be a cop, to put her life on the line, but Jane chose detective. Jane chose vice. Dr. Isles was quiet so the story continued.

"I was the first female, so the first thing they did was send me undercover," Jane whispered. "And you know what you do undercover in narcotics? You sell yourself for some blow. You lead the boys in the van listening to the big bad drug dealers. But sometimes it's not that easy. They want you to prove you're not a cop. And I did. I had to do it a few times."

Jane sniffled slightly, not crying but suddenly filled with old emotion. She pet down a few loose pieces of hair. Dr. Isles was still watching her, still completely silent.

"I would always report it to the unit. They knew what was going on. I never did anything more than what was necessary. It was never a problem," Jane said. She knew that Dr. Isles probably didn't believe her. But she didn't care. The confession budded on her soul like a new arrhythmia, pressing her until the truth was out. Pushing her to share, to talk about the things she never could before. And something about the quiet, striking Dr. Isles was enough to inspire her.

"It wasn't a problem until September," Jane muttered. "My partner - they got Martinez. And it was my fault. I set up the operation. Someone recognized me. The backup didn't come. And they got Rafael. I never even liked him - we were Cadets together. But he was still my brother. And I let him die."

A tear threatened and Jane tried to swallow it down. Instead the fat, salty bead escaped and rolled slowly down her cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut to prevent more emotion.

"I'm sorry," Jane apologized. "I've never actually told anyone that before."

Dr. Isles stared down at her delicate hands, the magic, strong hands of surgery. She'd been quiet throughout the story but it struck deep. She'd heard many sob stories of addiction working in the hospital, had seen terrible things, but the heartfelt confession of the detective made her ache. She could see the pain on Jane's face. She could almost feel it. It's why since the beginning Dr. Isles reverted to stoicism and distance. She wasn't just socially inept and of poor bedside manner, but there was some method for her coldness. Dr. Isles never wanted to be hurt.

"I was reading your chart," Dr. Isles muttered. "I saw you were shot in September…"

"It was nothing," Jane whispered.

"It's common for law enforcement to try to self-medicate and avoid the emotions…."

"Yeah," Jane said tersely.

The detective straightened back up, wiping her red rimmed eyes and clearing her throat with new strength. She folded her long arms across her chest and moved her russet eyes to meet the doctor's.

"So I'm going to be okay?" she asked.

Dr. Isles nodded slowly, her face also returning to its mask of professional blankness. "I'd like to keep you here for further observation," Dr. Isles told her. "You're young for a heart attack but you could have very well gone into cardiac arrest tonight. I don't want to take any risks."

"I have a case," Jane said.

"Your health is more important. You're in no condition detective," Dr. Isles told her.

Jane bowed her head in defeat. Two hours ago she wanted nothing to do with the case. Now she was disappointed to be taken off it.

A sudden, gentle hand grazed her shoulder, startling Jane out of her somber state. She glanced up to find Dr. Isles standing over her, a soft, comforting palm on Jane's bony back. The doctor appeared just as surprised with herself, her face twitching with slight awkwardness at the attempt of connection.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Isles whispered. "I'm sorry for what happened to you detective. But you're going to be okay."

Jane's chest twitched. It wasn't the pain or fear of the arrhythmia but a new, excited, light pull. A flutter that made her warm and desire more at the same time. Like she'd found a new cocaine right there in Dr. Isles honey eyes.

"What's your name?" Jane asked.

Dr. Isles brow crinkled, causing a few lines to crease her smooth forehead. "I'm sorry?"

"You can call me Jane," she told her.

The surgeon suddenly understood and with a comforting touch still on the detective's shoulder, she gave a hint of a smile. It was enough for Jane to flutter again. "I'm Maura," she said. Their stare lingered, the connection swelling in the small space. Finally the doctor dropped her hand, grabbed the chart and started for the door.

"I'll check on you later," Maura announced nervously.

Jane watched as she disappeared, fleeing off like a scared school girl. And despite the state of her heart, the pain and the mess she created, she finally believed it.

She was going to be okay.

Not sure where this one is going but I had to get it out there. I would love to continue it but I have no idea where to go. So no promises as I don't like getting people's hopes up, but I hope you enjoyed. Thanks.