Title: Fall in Slumber

Rating: T for sporadic course language

Summary: A case from Jane and Maura's past leaves them in a fight for their future and depending on one another for survival.

Spoilers: A vague reference to 2x04. Nothing specific.

A/N: Dedicated to my "Rizzles" girls on Twitter. This concept was breifly touched upon the other night in a chat and I decided to map out a story. Shamefully unbeta'd and lovingly appreciative of any reviews you might decide to send to me.

The chill of the impending weather is in the air. It always in late September when Bostonians brace for the inclement amounts of snow surely to be heading their way. The sidewalks are filled with pedestrians as he wraps the wool of his scarf tighter around his face and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

The neighborhood is busy for 6 pm and aromas of the restaurants from nearby Hanover street waft into his nose. The North End is alive this evening with locals and tourists alike, obscuring him from being picked apart out of a crowd. From being seen by them.

The tall one laughs and shoves her counterpart lightly as they walk toward the small gym from the parking garage. The action shows the chisel of her cheeks and the long, dark brown locks of her hair whip back and forth in a cool breeze. Her posture is strong. Does she knows that she walks with what looks like determination in her step? He wonders if she feels less of a whole without the badge and gun at her hip, instead tucked no doubt into the confines of her bag. He seethes as he watches whatever she's said create amusement to flit across her friend's face.

The one with the honeyed hair is more delicate, refined. She's made up of adjectives that would never touch her seemingly opposite-in-every-way friend. Her voice is calmer, silkier than the gravely tone of the detective. He's seen caring in her eyes and knows that on paper, she is a good woman. She donates to charities, offers her time to children's organizations and volunteers at career days at the local schools. She lovely and educated, but she covers her form with excess and expense. She destroys her facade with material money and he hates her for it. Hates that she contradicts what she seems to uphold.

When the force of them combines together, like this on the streets of the city, his anger toward them becomes hard to quell. He feels it boil, not hot like water, but a scorching sting like acid in his veins. They will pay for their wrongs, he thinks. Justice will be served, finally.

The Slumberer fingers the hypodermic needle in his pocket, rakes his fingers against the glass of the small vials rolling around. He stops at the edge of the building and watches them disappear into the gym.

Her legs feel like wet noodles and she plops down on the bench in the locker room with a thud. Leaning backward, she rests and looks up at the ceiling. Sweat trickles down her temples and clings to the fabric of her workout shirt. The heat of her body rises and she suddenly has the overwhelming urge to shed every piece of her clothing in order to cool off.

She kicks off her shoes and bends her legs so she can peel the socks from her feet. The act does little to lower her temperature. In, out, in, out, repeats in her head as she tries to steady the quick pace of her breath. All of a sudden, eyes are staring down at her. Around the irises, they are light brown but then fan out to an olive hue of green. Maura tilts her head to the side and says nothing.

"I'm hot," Jane mutters and blows up a puff of air, sending the stray strand of hair from her eyes. She knows she looks as if she has been through an military boot camp while Maura looks untouched and refreshed by their exercise.

"The expelling of sweat from your pores should help cool you core temperature down momentarily," Maura offers. "Or you could always take a cold shower."

"I don't know why the hell I let you talk me in to this. Zumba? Really? Who willingly submits themselves to that type of torture? I felt like a freaking ballet dancer hopping around in there," Jane growls as she sits back up and grabs a towel from the bench.

"Zumba classes have proven to be a stress reliever and provide better mental clarity. It also works muscles that many fail to use on a day to day basis."

"I wanted to do boxing, Maura. Not go to a dance class with you."

"Is it because you haven't punched anyone in the face lately? You do seem to have more pent up aggression..."

"What? No! God," Jane moans and stands up level with Maura. "It's just, my thing, you know? I'm better at it than that." She makes a stabbing motion with her finger toward the door.

Maura laughs and pulls her gym bag from the locker. Even after being stuffed in a confined space, her clean clothing emerges still neatly folded and perfect. Jane glances down at her own with wrinkles already defining the fabric.

"I don't like punching people in the face," Jane mutters.

Maura stops and gives her a comforting look. She's good at this. At sending just a small glance in Jane's direction and making whatever tension that she feels dissipate. As much as she would like to keep up the moody demeanor, she feels a smile tug at her lips.

"Much," she laughs throatily. Maura erupts into a jolly laugh as well as she goes through her bag.

"Oh no! I seem to have misplaced my body wash. It must have fallen out of the side of my bag. I guess I didn't pull the zipper all of the way to," she frowns.

"Uh, you can borrow mine," Jane says as she tosses a towel over her shoulder. Instantly, she can see something wrong in her friend's face. "What?"

"It's a special order blend with components from Hawaii, Peru, Borneo, and the Arabian Peninsula," she frowns. "I'm going to check the car and see if maybe I left it in there."

"Right, because normal ole' body wash won't do the trick. I'll wait for you if I get done first," Jane shrugs and walks to the showers. Maura grabs her bag and car keys but leaves her clothing next to Jane's things. Throwing on her coat, she exits the room and makes her way to the street.

Outside, the air has become colder. For 8pm, the sidewalks are surprisingly busy, most likely due to their close proximity to the culinary attractions of Hanover. She'd let Jane pick the gym, a small but nice addition amidst the hardworking Italian neighborhoods, an aggregation of the people Jane identifies so much with. With the culture and blood that she knows runs through her friend's veins.

As she reaches the small parking garage, she punches the button to release the door locking mechanism on her Toyota Prius. She stuffs the keys into her pocket and is about to reach for the handle when she something slams into her hard, jerking her head back as a hand covers her mouth. The arm around her waist is like stone, the grip hard on her body even through the material of her workout clothes.

She struggles, tries to fight and get closer to the windows of her car in hopes of seeing the figure holding onto her with a vice gripe. Just as the unknown assailant has blindsided her, so does the needle as she feels it break the skin of her neck and the cold substance it contains drain from the opening into her body. The grip on her looses and as she feels herself slide to the ground, she sees a toothy smile reflected back to her. And little else.

Jane exits the showers, wrapped tightly in the cotton towel. She had taken her time, really lathered her hair and body in an attempt to wash away the sweaty odor of her workout. Now feeling refreshed, she quickly pulls on her clothes and wraps her wet hair in a pony tail on her head. With her dirty clothing in hand, she leaves the shower area and makes her way back to the set of lockers lining the walls and running down the middle of the room.

She stops as she sees Maura's clean clothing sitting beside her bag, still folded and untouched. Glancing back toward the shower area and then to the clothing again, a pang of panic courses through her. Calm down, Rizzoli, she says to herself and walks back toward the shower area. Maybe Maura had just forgotten to pick up her clothing before tucking herself under a stream of hot water.

If anyone had entered the room, they would have been utterly perplexed by her odd behavior and probably called her a pervert, trying to sneak a peek. She knows she must look like an idiot, trolling the under side of the shower stalls and examining the sets of feet she passes. Some areas are unoccupied and others are not. She sees toes absent of color and others painted shades of both bright and soft pink, but no red.

Damn.

That means that Maura hadn't come back from the car. Or had she? A thousand scenarios run through Jane's brain, the pessimistic ones kept at bay. Jogging out of the locker room, she tries to tell herself that maybe Maura has become preoccupied elsewhere, chatting to an acquaintance or the desk clerks.

A scan of the gym turns up nothing though. Jane pushes through the doors to enter the street, her palms sweating as she tries to keep a grip on her gun hanging by her hip and thighs. The pace of her steps quickens, as does the beating of her heart. Something isn't right, she knows it. Can feel it in her gut.

Slinking into the parking garage, she rounds concrete pillars slowly and pops from behind each one to find nothing. She can see Maura's car up ahead, the pink athletic bag sitting on the ground.

"Shit, shit, shit," she breathes raggedly. The synapses misfire, she becomes careless and unguarded. Worry for her friend etches into her features and grief seems to have her stricken. It does all but paralyze her as she stares down at the contents spilled onto the ground.

The air chemistry seems to shift behind her and she palms her gun quickly, ready to spin around, the object is jolted hard out of her hand. She screams against the palm clamped tightly over her mouth but the sound comes out muted, incapable of being heard from the nearby street of people. As the needle punctures the muscles of her neck, she has a final, fleeting thought before the world turns black.

I have royally screwed up.