Maura makes herself wait until the third panic attack, the third nightmare that leaves her frozen in her bed, sweating through the top sheet, her breath high in her lungs, her muscles trembling. It's entirely illogical to choose three as her mark, based entirely upon the human brain's tendency to search for groupings, meaning. Maura decides it's acceptable for her at this point to not fall on the side of science-her brain has been traumatized, and it's unreasonable for her to expect it to function properly until she's processed the… incident.

"I had an epiphany," she tells her therapist on their first session. It's someone her (biological) mother recommended, known for her work with trauma victims and managing PTSD.

"Oh?" Dr. Thulasi-call her Melissa, please-looks faintly bemused. Maura had come in with a folder containing her medical reports from the hospital and a timeline for her expected recovery, some of Maura's own notes.

Maura is aware of her effect on the average person. She decided long ago not to dwell or attempt to blend with social expectations. It often works as an excellent filtering system. A job as demanding as she has doesn't allow for close relationships with a large group of people anyway. Melissa's response is promising-she acknowledges Maura abnormal approach, but doesn't appear judgemental or condescending; Maura is pleased both by her test and by the doctor's response.

"Yes," she says. "As a medical professional and a foremost logical thinker, I was drawn to articles discussing PTSD in chemical and biological terms. However, as a victim, it will be most helpful to focus on articles written in layman's terms. I already understand why I have PTSD and what it means. What I need is strategies for managing and eliminating the symptoms."

Melissa makes a small note. "Impressive self-reflection, Dr. Isles."

Again, Maura is pleased. "Maura, please." Respect for her title, her position, and allowing her to increase intimacy at her own pace.

"I find your acceptance to be defined as a victim surprising," Melissa continues, "in so much that many survivors resist being labeled a victim."

"Victim is the most accurate term for my situation," Maura says. "Furthermore, I will be known as a victim in police reports and judicial proceedings. While I do not enjoy experiencing victimhood, avoidance of exact vocabulary will make no differences in the recovery process."

"If anything," Melissa says, "it could only expedite it. Therapy works, Maura, but it requires trust, and honesty. It's my job to create an atmosphere that you feel you can be truthful and engaged in. If it doesn't work, it won't be because it's your fault, and I can help you find a therapist that suits your needs and your goals."

"I'm optimistic about our working relationship," Maura says. "If issues arise with my care I have no problem expressing them with you and brainstorming solutions. In that vein, in our next session I will have copies of my statement to the police."

"An excellent place to start," Melissa agrees.

/

"Are you sure about this?" Jane hovers in her office doorway, emanating anxious concern. "You gave a statement at the scene."

"The only other person you could talk to is dead," Maura says briskly. Jane makes an offended noise. "I didn't say it was your fault, Jane, but it is what happened."

"Maura." Jane's tone is firm, and Maura looks up from her paperwork. Jane has crossed the room while she wasn't paying attention. "You don't have to do this."

"I do," Maura disagrees. "This person is still out there, and they want to hurt you. I'm very invested in his capture by the proper authorities. Who are not you."

Jane bites her thumbnail. "I know, I can't believe they took me off the case."

Maura swats Jane's hand out of her mouth. Jane recoils out of her reach and spits a sliver of her fingernail out onto Maura's desk. "Jane!" She feels the smile stretch across her face.

Jane sticks her tongue out. "You're a coroner. You touch grosser things than that a million times a day."

Maura stands. "Your estimation skills are abysmal. And I'm not a coroner. I'm the Chief Medical Examiner for the Commonwealth-"

"Blah blah Old Bay State," Jane says.

Maura pulls a compact and adjusts a few strands of her hair. "You're mixing nicknames," she notes. When she leaves Jane follows her, chewing her thumbnail again. "Jane. It's going to be fine. I'm just going to tell them exactly what happened. Studies indicate sharing the experience to someone who believes you can be cathartic, and is an important step in the healing process."

"You can stop anytime you want to," Jane says like she hasn't been listening at all. They step into the elevator together and Jane jams the button impatiently-one-two-three-four-five-six times. Maura's told her two hundred and fourteen times that further presses after initial activation does not increase the speed of the elevator. "Korsak will take care of you."

The elevator dings. "Vince isn't taking my statement," Maura says. "Detective Lee is."

"What?" Jane catches her by the wrist. "Why." Her tone is demanding and knowing all at once.

Maura blinks. "How did you know I requested a different detective?"

Jane waves her hand impatiently. "I could tell by the way you said it. Why would you do that?"

"I've been doing research on other cases," Maura explains. They start walking again. "While the justice system is undeniably slanted towards the state in most prosecutions, any perceived bias by the detectives could hurt the odds of an eventual conviction. When they catch the person responsible for… everything, I want the case against him to be as strong as I can help make it. That means a detective with no personal ties to me takes my statement." Her palms feel sweaty, which is unusual because she normally experiences a lower body temperature than the average woman of her height, weight, and age. Jane's hand is on her shoulder, and she doesn't remember how it got there.

"Okay," Jane says. "But you can still stop whenever you want to. Even if that is right now, before it happens."

This statement is how Maura can be helpful. And she has already told Melissa she will be bringing a copy to her office for their next session. She doesn't want to make changes to her timeline. "It's fine. I'm fine."

Jane leans in close to Maura, examining her neck and collarbones. Her hair smells like Irish Spring. Maura makes a note to restock Jane's shower with a better shampoo-Jane's curls are too beautiful for a low end bar-soap made liquid. "Are you smelling me?"

"No," Jane says, pulling back just a fraction. "I'm looking for hives."

A wave of emotion sweeps over Maura, warm. Fondness. She identifies it and allows it to trigger a response: love, gratitude. "I'm not lying. I'm fine." She stops in front of an interview room. "He's waiting for me."

"Okay," Jane says. She leans against the opposite wall. Maura stares at her. Jane makes a shooing motion. "You know you hate being late."

"You don't have to wait for me," Maura says, but her hands aren't trembling anymore.

"You don't have to wait for me," Jane mimics in an exaggerated high pitched voice. She deepens it to a growl: "I'll always wait for you."

"I don't understand that reference," Maura says primly, and goes into the room. She turns to close the door behind her and catches an expression she doesn't think Jane meant for her to see-exhaustion, concern.

/

At the end of the day Maura receives the email she's been waiting for. She prints a copy of the attachment and puts it in a plain manila file folder. Jane happens to be at her desk, scowling at a stack of paperwork. "You're holding your pencil wrong," Maura tells her. "It's putting pressure on your phalanges. Changing your grip can aid you in avoiding callosity."

"Oh no," Jane mocks without looking up, "not my phalanges!"

"Prevention is much easier than treatment where calluses are concerned," Maura says, and drops the file on Jane's desk. "This is for you."

Jane picks it up. "We don't have a case right now."

"It's a copy of my statement. I checked with the detective and there's no harm in you having access to it, as I've already signed it."

Jane looks faintly guilty. "I read it as soon as it was forwarded to Korsak."

"I know," Maura says, "this is symbolic."

"Oh." Jane puts the folder in a desk drawer. "You should know I flunked high school literature."

Maura could tease her for her obvious dislike of looking for hidden meaning rather than direct statements of truth and the irony of that in a very talented, intuitive detective. She chooses not to, in order to underscore the importance of what she's saying. "I don't want you to look at the report from the hospital."

"Why?" Jane's voice is sharp, almost panicked. "What's in there?"

Maura thinks she may have miscalculated. She expected hurt, perhaps, or pushback. Jane has sat up straight in her chair, frown lines around her mouth. Maura hesitates to assess her options and Jane jumps to her feet, grabbing Maura by the elbow. Her fingers brush bruises but Maura doesn't flinch. "Jane?"

"With me." Jane drags her around the corner, through a short hallway, and into an office supply closet. It smells like cheap bleach and printer ink. Once the door is closed behind them, Jane takes a step back. "The hospital told us they're still running tests, and will release your information when they have the results."

"Yes," Maura says. "I know you're used to rushed results from my lab, but there is often a long log of tests to run, and not enough funding or personnel to complete it quickly."

Jane rubs a hand over her face. "If there's something else that happened to you while you were-" she stumbles for a second "-gone. You know you can tell me." She catches Maura's hand. "You know you can tell me anything."

"Of course," Maura reassures. Jane's face doesn't lose its pinched look. "You already know I wasn't seriously injured."

"Surface abrasions," Jane parrots promptly, "single facial hematoma."

"Very good," Maura praises. Jane preens. Maura thinks, not for the first time, that training Jane not to hide her obvious intellect is eerily similar to training Jo Friday not to pee on the rug. "Knowing isn't the same-hospital reports are clinical. There are pictures, and measurements." It wasn't as bad as the rape kit, but the rape kit file was never run, released, or disclosed in court. "I don't want you to think of me that way." She crosses her arms across her torso and looks at the wall. There's a discoloration, just below a shelf. A chemical spill has stained the olive paint brown. Maura considers a joke about reddish brown stains but can't quite pull together a punchline.

"Maura," Jane says softly. Her hand hovers over Maura's shoulder, then lands, cool fingered, on the back of her neck, soft pressure on the top knob of her spine. Maura resists for a second, then leans in, resting her forehead on the juncture of Jane's neck and shoulder. "You're amazing," Jane continues. "I could never think less of you."

Maura sniffles a little, nuzzles into Jane's skin. "Your opinion matters a great deal to me."

Jane rubs a hand on the small of Maura's back, reassuring. "Cross my heart."

Maura doesn't want to leave the curtain of Jane's dark curls. She's not ready to stand on her own feet yet. She needs just one more moment of safety. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart," Jane says softly. "Not even if you wear those skeletoes again."

Humour as a medium for emotional vulnerability. Maura has long learned to recognize and accept when Jane has had enough of direct communication. "FiveFinger Vibrams," she corrects, stepping back. "And research has indicated no truth to their claim for prevention of heel injuries and strengthening foot muscles."

"Oh," Jane says, overexaggerated with wet eyes, fighting for normalcy, "well if the research says so."

/

"Your statement is very clinical," Melissa notes.

"Yes," Maura agrees, readily. She expected and has prepared for the line of questioning. "I thought it best to outline the facts of my abduction and focus on what I could remember about Dr. Harris and his yet-unknown accomplice." She pauses. "It is not yet clear whether or not I will need to testify-of course," she rushes to correct herself, "I have the utmost confidence in Jane and the rest of the BPD in apprehending the person responsible for these crimes."

"Of course," Melissa agrees.

"For the purpose of therapy," Maura clarifies, "I am willing to disclose a separate report here, focusing on the emotional side of my experience."

/

They don't get much farther than that. Maura finishes with a description of discharging herself from the hospital against the counsel of her physician and her first nightmare, and the session ends. She leaves shaky, drained. She can't drive like this. Her hands are trembling when she puts her car keys away and takes out her cellphone.

"Maura?" How long, Maura wonders idly, until Jane answers her call with something other than poorly disguised panic? She mentally sets aside time to extrapolate a realistic goal and add it to her timeline. "Maura? Talk to me."

"Jane." Maura can hear her own voice, tinny and weak. "I-." She falters.

"Maura," Jane repeats, urgent worry, "what's wrong? Where are you?"

"I'm fine," Maura forces out. "I just-my car. The battery. I'm at my therapist's office, do you think you can send a squad car to take me back to my lab?" She'll feel better in the lab, she's sure.

"Don't be stupid," Jane grouches good-naturedly. "I'll come get you. Just-wait somewhere well lit."

Something in the conversation, something about Jane, grounds Maura from the tips of her fingers to the ends of her toes. "It's barely ten in the morning, Jane."

"Well lit," Jane repeats, exaggerated comically, "many people."

Maura is smiling when she hangs up, and scratches idly at her throat, seeking relief from urticaria-except her nails don't bump over raised welts. She frowns, and runs sensitive fingerpads over her skin. Nothing.

/

By the time Jane pulls up at the curb Maura has steadied herself. She slips into the passenger seat and Jane hands her a coffee. "No thank you," Maura says politely. "I'm avoiding stimulants."

Jane shrugs and chugs the coffee in long gulps. She tosses the empty cup into the backseat and screeches into mid-morning traffic. "You're having trouble sleeping?"

"It's to be expected," Maura says. She brushes lint off her dress. "I'm experimenting with treatments."

Jane taps her fingers on the steering wheel. "You could ask the doc for a scrip."

"I could write myself a prescription," Maura notes. Jane rolls her eyes. "My reaction to sleeping aids has been problematic in the past."

The tapping increases in force and speed. "You've tried them before."

"I have experienced stress before," Maura says, "although admittedly not to this degree."

"Hmm." Jane says. They park at the station and Maura slips the strap of her purse over her shoulder as she exits the car. "No case yet," Jane says, "paperwork day, unless we get lucky."

"Let us hope for murder," Maura says dryly. They blow into the lobby, strides synced.

Jane makes a face and presses her hands close together in semblance of prayer. "Oh Jesus, I've been ever so good."

"Blasphemy," Angela scolds, bustling over to them with a muffin and fresh coffee-"decaf for you, Maura."

"Thank you," Maura takes a happy sip, sighing.

"Why do you automatically assume I'm blasphemous," Jane complains, ripping the muffin in half vertically and stuffing the top into her mouth. "Maybe I was praying for sick children to be well again." Maura steps aside to avoid crumb spray.

Angela props her hands on her hips. "And what exactly were you praying for then, Janie?"

Jane shuffles her feet. "Murder," she mutters in a low voice. Angela rolls her eyes. She shooes them away. "It could be the murder of a bad person," Jane complains as she stabs at the elevator button-seven times. "Like, someone who really deserves it."

"It's important to cultivate achievable dreams," Maura agrees. The elevator arrives and she steps aside to let it empty. When they enter it, they're alone-a rarity. Jane immediately starts accosting the close doors button.

"Come on," she mutters, watching an officer pick up his pace, headed towards them. The doors close with a soft ding. "Yes," Jane cheers softly. She fist bumps herself in victory. Then she turns to Maura, suddenly serious. "My mother knows you're having trouble sleeping?" The you told her and not me hangs in the air between them.

"Maybe if you visited your mother more," Maura tries.

"Ah! Ah ah ah," Jane heads her off. "You're not going to be able to distract me with Catholic guilt this time, Dr. Isles."

"It came up," Maura says, "your mother has been very kind to treat me as family."

"You are family," Jane says bluntly, with an edge of annoyance, "like you don't know that already."

"My experience with family is still rather new," Maura says simply. Jane fidgets.

"You can't get rid of us once you've got us," she grumbles, "believe me, I've tried for disownment. It's never stuck."

"It's lovely," Maura says softly. Unconditional love is still a marvel to her.

"Mm," Jane grunts. "Hey, what's wrong with your car?"

"The battery is dead," Maura says without thinking. "I left the interior light on when I went to my appointment. I suppose the stress is making me forgetful."

"Don't beat yourself up about it," Jane says, encouraging. Maura can barely hear her. She feels suddenly far away. "You'll be back to your infallible self in no time. In fact, no rush on that. Feel free to be wrong for a while."

/

Maura goes the bathroom as soon as she's able and looks at herself in the mirror. She checks her neck, collarbones, ribs, inner thighs and calves. Unblemished skin, marred only by fading bruises. No hives, no rash. She doesn't feel the edge of panicky breathing. She doesn't feel guilt.

"Interesting," she tells her reflection, "from a scientific standpoint."

/

Maura is a scientist. She can't accept a conclusion without testing under a number of different parameters. She decides to start small and scale up. She has noticed before that she has been able to lie around Jane, although not about anything serious. Jane, in every other way, has proved out of the ordinary for all of her normal social-emotional responses, and it wouldn't be illogical to conclude that where Jane is concerned, everything is different.

So she starts with Kent. There's no particular emotional tie there, apart from a thread of fondness for some of his more endearing bumbling and a touch of respect for his professional abilities. She considered starting with Pike, but there's the scientific method and then there's incurring a migraine on yourself for no good reason.

"Kent," she says, "you forgot to sterilize the bonesaw. Number Seven." Number Seven is her favorite, and one she (illogically) considers lucky. Number Seven understands her and what she wants to learn from her cadavers. Jane calls Number Seven 'Steven', because there's illogical conclusions, and then there's Jane.

"No I didn't," Kent says, miffed. In fairness, he did not forget, so he's entitled to be snippy. Maura experiences no physical response from her lie. She scales up.

"You did," she insists, pointing to the instrument in question. "Look. Would I forget to tell you? Or say that I did if I hadn't?"

Kent pauses. "No," he says, accent colored with confusion. "Sorry Maura, I must have forgotten." He trails off, shaking his head. "I'll do it right away."

"See that you do," Maura orders crisply, and retreats into her office. Gaslighting, Maura knows, is to twist facts and information in favor of one person to cause another to doubt their own perceptions of reality. Maura has always considered it a particularly cruel form of abuse, and she has just perpetuated it onto her subordinate. She sips a cup of tea and pulls a stack of charts towards herself. She feels fine.

/

Korsak offers her a pistachio from a paper cup, pre-shelled. "No thank you," Maura hears herself say, "I'm allergic."

"Sorry," Korsak says, tossing the cup into a nearby dumpster. He fishes a bottle of hand-sanitizer out of a pocket and squirts it into his palms. He grins at her. "Promise not to kiss you."

There's a fact on Maura's tongue, about how long it would take until he could kiss someone with a pistachio allergy. However, since she was lying, that information is not relevant, and for the first time Maura lets a fact slide off her tongue, down her throat, back into her lungs. She breathes it out and watches it dissipate like smoke in the air. "There's been a murder?"

Korsak leads her to the body. Caucasian male, out of rigor, looks to be mid to late thirties. He's six foot one, two hundred pounds, blonde hair. Maura suspects him to have hazel eyes, once the cloud of death leaves them. She crouches and begins a preliminary investigation. "Hey," Jane says, joining them. "Got anything yet?"

"It's barely been twenty seconds," Korsak says.

Maura begins speaking before he's finished, overlapping. Rude to a man showing her kindness for a lie. Maura remembers his arm around her waist, walking her out of the tunnel into the light. He'd told the EMT to treat her well, voice sharp and protective. He'd lent her his jacket until she'd been settled on the stretcher. "Blunt force trauma. Decomposition of the myofilaments indicated he's been dead for nearly forty eight hours." It's another lie, but a lesser one. She heavily suspects decomposition of the myofilaments, but can't yet confirm it beyond a reasonable doubt.

"ID?" Jane asks, squatting to pat down the corpse's jacket. Maura doesn't carry ID on her person, just her purse. Maybe she should start wearing some kind of alert jewelry, with her name and Jane's number. "Maura?"

Maura realizes she's in the way. She stands abruptly. "I'll know more after the autopsy."

Jane looks at her for a beat. "Okay. Korsak, get down here and help me go through this man's pockets for loose change."

Korsak squats obediently. "I did the front pants pocket last time. It's your turn."

Jane fishes in said pockets, grumbling. "Nothing. Hopefully his prints will pop." She turns to Korsak suddenly, inhaling sharply. "Hey! You have pistachios." She snaps off a blue glove and extends her palm, demanding. "Gimme."

Korsak stands, his knees cracking. "Trashed 'em. The Doc's allergic," he jerks his thumb at Maura, who's turned around, fixing up her kit. The CSI team on scene is competent enough. She'll be most helpful to the case back at the morgue. She stands and makes to go back.

"No she's not-hey!"

Jane catches her by the shoulder and drags her to the side, into a small dead end alley. The lights from the squad cars are flashing in Maura's periphery. "Yes, Jane?"

Jane leans close and peers in Maura's eyes. "Okay, enough. What the hell is going on with you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Maura tries. Her heart rate has increased. Her vision tunnels.

"You're not allergic to pistachios," Jane says, "and I had Tommy go take a look at your car. He's a deadbeat but he knows how to turn the ignition."

Maura focuses on a relevant piece of information. "Tommy has a key to my car?"

"No," Jane says impatiently, "I do, obviously. He picked it up from the house. Maura-Maura!" Her voice rises sharply in alarm as Maura's knees buckle. She gasps for air. She falls. Jane catches her, easing her back against the dirty brick wall. "Talk to me," Jane says. Her leg wedges between Maura's, propping her upright.

"It's psychosomatic," Maura says, taking careful breaths.

"Pyscho-whosit?"

"Psychosomatic," Maura repeats, focusing on proper definitions. "A physical reaction caused or aggravated by a mental factor."

"The lie?" Jane asks, confused. "Like your hives, right?"

There's an opportunity here, Maura knows, to come clean. It would be excellent progress to report to Melissa on their next session. Korsak would be sure to forgive her, Jane would drive her home and hover. "I-yes. He smelled like pistachios."

Jane is pressed up against her, holding her up, and Maura can feel every one of her muscles recoil. "Harris."

Maura feels a numbness start in her fingers. "Yes-it seemed like a simpler thing, to be allergic, than to appear weak in front of Vince." It's a deliberate use of his first name, a deliberate manipulation of her closest, if not only, friend.

"I understand," Jane says, voice so gentle. "It's okay, Maura. Regular people white lie all the time. You can be regular, just for a day." She brushes Maura's hair out of her face. "Tomorrow you go back to being Super Maura, okay?"

She is sure to tell Korsak of this new 'clue.' It is a deliberate lie that is now impacting an official police investigation. An investigation into someone that wants to hurt Jane.

Maura has never felt less regular, or less like herself. "I need to get back to the lab." She pushes her hands on Jane's chest, feels the resistance before Jane backs away. It feels like a particularly cutting metaphor, and she leaves her bag behind on the ground as she rushes away from the crime scene, to the officer who'd given her a ride. He holds the crime scene tape up for her and she ducks under it. She wonders if Jane would be standing there, looking at her, if she looked back. She doesn't look.

/

She gives Kent the autopsy and takes a taxi home. Her car is sitting in the driveway, courtesy of Tommy, and she feels sick again. She throws up and drinks a bottle of water to compensate for her loss of fluids and to stave off a dehydration headache. She steps out of her heels and doesn't put them away. When she unzips her dress she leaves it crumpled on the floor to crawl in her underwear under the duvet.

When she wakes up it's dark out and there's a message blinking on her cellphone. Two missed calls, texts. Jane says did you leave? and where are you? and Ma says you're home and call me if you need me. Maura deletes them and goes back to sleep.

/

She wakes from a dream about sitting in a desert, feeding Bass strawberries. The juice had colored her fingers shiny and bright, and Jane teased her about reddish brown stains. She rinses her mouth out and brushes her teeth, checks the time. Nearly three in the morning. She had meant to update her timeline tonight, but other thoughts take precedence. She feels sick with guilt. She throws her dress in the trash, angry at herself, and drinks a glass of wine. She chews on her fingernails until the polish peels off, ragged. She has another two glasses of wine. Then she finds a pair of slacks and blouse and runs a brush through her hair.

/

"Maura?" Frankie is in his underwear, rubbing at his eyes. "Is everything okay?"

"I need to talk to Jane," Maura says. In the cab over, her resolve returned, and she feels the need to course correct like an electrical current under her skin.

"You look-" Frankie starts, and stops himself. He scratches his belly button. "Of course. C'mon." He walks into the apartment and calls out: "Jane! It's Maura."

There's a series of thumps from the tiny closet Jane calls her room, and she stumbles out, blowing hair from her mouth and face. "Maura? Jesus, Frankie, that's how you answer the door?"

"I'll die comfortable," Frankie says, middle finger extended, and shuts the door to his room behind him.

"Maura?" Jane's voice is careful, and Maura realizes that it's not within the set of normal social expectations to show up at four in the morning. She waves her hand dismissively. Normal has never been normal for her and Jane.

"Mt. Sinai," she begins.

"Gesundheit," Jane says, wrestling her hair into a low ponytail.

Maura sighs. "It's a community hospital Jane, in New York."

"Really?" Jane arches an eyebrow, "is it not where God gave us His holiest of rules?" She grins. "Can't take the catechism out of the girl."

Maura ignores her. She starts to pace. "Did two study," she says, "showing that between five and twelve percent of patients surveyed reported reactions after kissing someone who had consumed the relevant allergen."

Jane is frowning again. "Are you… having an allergic reaction?" She takes a closer look at Maura. "Or a stroke? 'Did two study'? Sit down." She tries to pull Maura to the couch and Maura recoils. Her back thumps painfully against the wall.

"No! I'm trying to tell you something important."

"Okay," Jane says, hands stretched out soothingly. "Tell me. I'm listening."

Maura nods. Jane wouldn't lie to her. "The studies found that waiting several hours, then eating a meal that didn't contain the allergen, alleviated the effects to a manageable level. This was tested by examining saliva for the allergen. The best way, of course, is to avoid the allergen entirely. It's the only way to guarantee safety for your partner."

She looks at Jane expectantly. Jane stares back. "Good to know." Jane says. Her eyes are particularly wide. Maura huffs, frustrated. "This is about pistachios," Jane says slowly.

Maura smiles, triumphant. "Yes. Exactly." She breathes out heavily, relieved. "You understand." She lets her legs go weak under her, sliding her back down the wall until she's sitting on the floor. Her hands are shaking again.

"Maura," Jane says softly. She's crouching by Maura's side, and Maura hadn't even noticed her move. Jane puts a hand on her knee. "You smell like wine and puke."

Maura considers the statement. "Accurate."

"You couldn't sleep? Did you drive here?"

Maura glares. "Of course not, I've been drinking. And I did sleep."

"You need more sleep," Jane says. "You're wearing two different shoes."

Maura looks down. "Accurate," she repeats, and lets her head loll against the wall. She closes her eyes. "I don't understand what's happening to me," she says, and hates her voice for being thick with tears.

The world tips under her, rolling like an earthquake, shaking her foundations. When it steadies again she's lying on her side on a mattress and Jane is taking off her shoes. Thump, one goes on the floor, thump, responds the other. The pillow smells like Irish Spring. She breathes deep and closes her eyes.

A warm weight settles next to her, a hesitant arm across her hips. "Go to sleep," Jane murmurs. "It'll be better in the morning."