AN: Just a short one-shot for Rizzoli and Isles whilst I await my muse to return for Grey's. :-) Let me know what you think. Cheers.

A warning for a few dialogued expletives, only a few but if it's not your thing and your'e insulted by the odd swear word, please don't read.

Observing silently from just inside the entrance to the post-mortem examination room, Jane Rizzoli internally debated her next movement. It was theoretically simple to prioritise an investigative need to observe the autopsy; to gain as much forensic information as early as possible. Yet, occasionally, cognition had its limitations.

Like when the bodies of children occupied the three examination tables.

She felt compelled to turn away, to disappear back to the safety of her chaotic desk, and it was a difficult instinct to challenge. Yet, friend and colleague, Maura Isles, stood equally motionless across the room, fingers curled around the cool metal edge of a table, head bowed. Oblivious to Jane's presence, Maura focussed on the pant legs of her scrubs, almost covering the toe of her sensible leather footwear. The Detectives and Officers she worked with focussed on identifying a perpetrator. They put their energy into covering the image of the small children being lifted by divers from the bottom of an abandoned pool with interviews, statements and hypotheses. She had no such luxury and her usual strategies, the dissociative tools and self talk that she frequently used, weren't having the desired effect.

They had found an adult female first, in a shallow grave surrounded by bushland. Then the children, days later.

"If you've taught me right, generally a scalpel is needed," Jane eventually said softly, attempting to keep a lightness to her tone. She pushed off the wall and averted her gaze, keeping her eyes focussed on Maura though she barely earned a brief turn of the head in response. "You haven't started?"

"I've done some preliminary blood work, standard toxicology." Raising her head, Maura lifted her stare and watched as Jane walked to her side, stopping at the foot of the dissection table.

Jane nodded slowly, absorbing Maura's exhausted image, her eyes wide and glazed, each blink slightly longer than usual. "So, nothing yet?"

Maura quickly inhaled, air noisily rushing through her nostrils. "No, still waiting on results," she responded with a distinct curt inflection. Adult or child, she was responsible for the forensic autopsy.

Shrugging off Maura's abruptness, Jane tucked her hands into her pockets and rolled on the outside of her feet. "You okay?" she asked after a prolonged silence.

"Fine." And she was fine, physiologically speaking.

"Right. Can I get you a coffee?"

"No."

Jane fidgeted with her fingers inside her pockets, flicking at each knuckle with her thumbs. "We've spoken to the residents of the house, they bought the property almost ten years ago and the old above ground pool had been there all that time. Can't figure out why anyone would move a pool acres away from the main house, although I suppose it was cheaper than building a dam."

Maura offered a quizzical look and it certainly didn't go unnoticed. "Is that important to the case?" she asked.

Jane sighed and shrugged. "No," she answered. "Well, not that we can establish. We're still searching, but there didn't seem to be anything useful at the scene, so we're kind of awaiting something from here."

A flash of a scowl raced across Maura's expression. "Did you know that the depth of the incision used with children is vastly different to a mature adult or even a pubescent adolescent? Requires unique instruments."

"Makes sense; I guess," Jane commented, hesitantly. "I do hate it when we have child victims."

Maura nodded and blinked hastily at the tears instantaneously pooling under her lower eyelids. "Yeah," she agreed, rolling her shoulders. "I should get started."

"Focus on the wine we'll have at the end of this?"

"You'll have a beer."

"I might surprise you and share a bottle." The comment earned the smallest of smiles from Maura, just the edge of her lip curling, her cheekbone barely swelling. "You want me to stay a while?" Maura started to move around the table, sliding the instruments with her and drawing the sheet away from the small body until she held a scalpel against the pale flesh. "Hey," Jane attempted again, drawing a hand out of her pocket to curl her fingers around Maura's elbow. "Want me to stay?"

"Yes." Smiling, Jane squeezed Maura's arm before releasing it, knowing the slight catch in articulation meant Maura was working hard to keep her composure. Drawing her eyes away for the first time, Jane let her gaze fall to the child that was now being incised. All three children were females, with long dark brown hair. Jane had guessed at the scene to their ages, probably between four and six years, and although Maura had muttered something about a dental and orthopaedic assessment to determine age, she hadn't challenged the estimation. There was some decomposition, with skin now compromised and a prevalent tissue breakdown. "There's evidence of insect and bug activity," Maura stated after a few minutes, "but in that environment, that still might only mean twenty four hours, perhaps forty eight."

The switch had been flicked; Maura was in work mode.

XXXX

The wine hadn't eventuated that evening, mainly because they were all working around the clock. It had technically been three days since Maura had first started to process the bodies, the internal forensic anyway. Twelve hours previous to that, she had completed the external examinations. Each day was long; sixteen hours long. And sleep was fragmented, broken by caffeine fuelled stamina and haunting images of tortured children.

It was a toxic mix. Awake, yet not necessarily alert; heightened senses that lacked coherency, vulnerable to mind games and imagery.

Yet, as it does in every pocket of the globe, time continues to progress. The old cases fade as the new demand attention; the sun rises and sets. Sometimes they find the solution, solve the crime without answering the why questions. They found a male last, hanging high from a tree just half a mile from the children. He was a husband, a father. He was her husband and their father. The why questions were irrelevant, the evidence was clear.

It didn't mean that as professionals, they didn't struggle, that the brutality didn't still ink their dreams.

Because it did.

The short vintage cabernet sauvignon slid down Maura's throat faster than Jane dissolved her beer. The bottle was empty, and then another was being corked. Jane moved on to bourbon, the warmth soothed her constricted oesophagus.

They were so incredibly quiet; it was odd. Or unusual at least; although the alcohol fuelled a looseness of tongue. Eventually.

"You didn't share the bottle," Maura stated, eyes attempting to focus on a small framed photo on her wall.

Jane could detect the slight slur, her pronunciation exact yet the sharpness tapered. "I don't think you were up to sharing." It was rare for Maura, to drink to excess. To blur the edges of her self control.

"There's another. There's always another."

"Wine?"

"That too." Two long gulps, like it was lemonade she was ingesting. They had only picked at their dinner, Thai curries that had been collected in transit.

Jane didn't know how to respond; in their line of work, there were always more. A sip of iced bourbon, she wasn't doing shots. "I could make some comfort food, cheese toastie?"

"I'm not hungry, Jane."

"I didn't ask about your appetite." She had learned from the best, fight fire with fire. She earned a stare in response, watery eyes, already with bloody vessels tarnishing the sclera. "I'm worried, Maura."

"I know you are." She didn't challenge or clarify; there was no question as to the cause of her worry. "I should go home." Jane's hand was wrapped around Maura's wrist before she had a chance to roll forward on the chair and stand. The glass she placed on the coffee table bounced and spilled, red liquid danced across the surface. Maura glanced at the long fingers tightly gripping her before raising her eyes to meet Jane's. "I'll have some cheese," she said softly, drawling her words.

Jane nodded but she sustained her grip, just a few moments. Insurance of sorts, that her progressively inebriating friend wasn't going to make a swift exit. Another sip of bourbon; the tug at her heartstrings lighter for just a second. She returned with a small plate of cheese and some water crackers. "At least a few," she instructed.

The wine glass was empty and Maura held it in the air as if it were a conundrum. Dropping two squares of cheese in her mouth, she swallowed heavily. Pre-packaged, cubed cheddar; her taste buds cried. God forbid, it were her eyes that wept before she crashed and burned.

"Who is it?" Jane asked, again observing Maura's gaze to fall back to the photograph.

"Me."

"And your mother?"

Maura laughed, scoffed. "No."

"That's funny?"

"My mother barely touched me, looked at me; she certainly didn't hold me like that."

"Who is it?"

The bottle was being tipped, the edge of the neck resting on the glass lip. Maura Isles never let the bottle touch the glass, except tonight. She needed the liquid in the glass, on her lips, in her stomach. "My au pair. One of them, the one I liked. Before she fucked the gardener when she was meant to be braiding my hair for dinner. Then the roses died, so they fired him as well."

Jane shuddered. Her mother had had a pot plant full of herbs when she was growing up; it used to sit on the windowsill in the kitchen. The basil was used in Spaghetti Bolognese. "Kids need hugs, though from their parents not the nanny."

"Children need parents that won't give them sedatives and then weight them with chains to the bottom of the pool. I did alright." There was a catch in her voice and she used her index finger to twist a piece of hair at her shoulder.

Jane sighed. If they compared themselves to their clients, their victims, then they would never utter a negative word. They would never feel emotion. Short of a violent death, they had nothing to complain about. "You're not talking to me Maura."

"I've enunciated words, uttered sentences."

"Come on," Jane interrupted her before she could rant. Before she could hide beneath the technicalities. "It was hard, really hard. I know that, it's not news to me. It doesn't help to say nothing, to hide." Her own articulation was flawed; the bourbon had edged her sobriety to the side.

"Yes, the pot and the kettle are black."

"If I ask you a question, will you answer me?" Jane reached a hand across the sofa, fingertips tapping to the inside of Maura's elbow. Her skin was cool and she was shivering. Or was it trembling; who could tell?

"I always answer you." She didn't move away from the touch, it kept her there, stationary. Connected to reality.

Jane smiled, though she didn't wish to imply disrespect. "Yes, but sometimes you answer to avoid, even though you understand exactly what I'm asking."

Maura's lips twitched; there was the hint of a smile. The transparency at times was deliberate. Even her avoidance wasn't without clues. "I won't play games."

Concerned that Maura was going to withdraw, Jane crawled her fingers around Maura's arm, so that her palm was pressed against her bicep and her grip tighter. "We always talk about cases, you know, if they bother us. Why is it that you won't talk about this case?"

Closing her eyes in a prolonged blink, Maura sighed. "Because it would make me sound…unstable."

"You've picked me up off the floor when I've lost it and you've slept next to me in a bed because I'm scared. You've come to my house in the middle of night because I was chasing a ghost. Do you think I'm unstable?"

"Yes." Maura tipped the emptying glass to her lips and a droplet fell to her shirt, a red spot on the white cotton, just above her naval. "I am joking. You're more stable than anyone I know or have met."

"Then let me return the favour; make me feel normal." Silence fell between them, a simple battle of endurance. Jane could feel Maura's shuddering under her touch and she searched for an indication as to what was needed. "What are you thinking?"

Maura's eyes fell to her lap, grinding her molars, knowing Jane had seen the shame flash across her face. She knew, because Jane had felt it too, had shown the very same look in days past. Jane squeezed Maura's arm, silent encouragement. "It's the existential questions. Children, presumably loved are violently killed for what? Vengeance; gratification? Then other children aren't wanted, they aren't loved, yet they have an invincibility."

Sighing, Jane used her thumb to gently soothe the skin under her touch. "I'm trying to understand. It's not fair; is that what you mean?"

"I was given away, twice really. Wouldn't it be fairer if a child with no one, who means nothing, is taken?"

"You're not a child anymore," Jane said softly, observing Maura's eyes again drift to the photograph. She was chewing at her bottom lip and her thoughts were swirling in time with her sense of balance and orientation.

"You saw her stab wounds Jane. Twenty one. That's seven for each child; she tried to protect them with her life, if they were going to die then so was she. My family, my parents couldn't even make it to my college graduation. She did," Maura muttered, nodding heavily to the image on the wall. "The slut could make it, but…" she trailed off, emotion catching in her throat. She washed it down with the remnants from the glass.

Jane shook her head when Maura went to reach for the bottle again, removing the glass from her and placing it on the table. "Maybe that's what isn't fair."

A flash of anger. "I gave up on that concept when I left their house. What right do I have, with everything that I am and have, to complain?"

"Oh I don't know Maura," Jane countered sarcastically. "You were ten years old, children get to feel that life is unfair. That's one of the luxuries of being a kid, you get to be really pissed off at your parents for screwing you over. And you get to do it twice."

"Not when I hold the organs of children in my hands. I can get angry for them; I can help them get justice."

Jane wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. How do you make someone realise that they're just as important; that they're so much more than they were raised to be? "Children do die, yes, we see that. But a lot of other crap happens out there, who gets them justice?" Maura shrugged, though Jane could see the thought processes as she flicked through the index cards in her mind for something that would be a suitable answer. Something that tied up the loose ends. "Who the hell fought for you?"

The expression of shame again, so brief yet so distinct. "I'm many things," Maura whispered and a tear tracked out of her left eye as her head lolled towards her shoulder. "But I was never worth fighting for. So I go into battle for others, 'cause maybe they don't have anyone either." The alcohol was gaining momentum and the mispronunciations were now slurred nuances and elongated vowels. "They were just little girls and they ended up in my morgue, alone."

Jane nodded, another hand now on Maura's shoulder, keeping her body from slouching to the side. "Yeah," she agreed, waiting.

"If it's ever me, if I'm lying there. Don't leave me there, alright?"

"In the morgue?" Maura was crying now, nodding, an uncoordinated hand cupping her mouth. "You're not that little kid anymore, okay? You are surrounded by people, family. Family you chose; family who will fight for you in an instant."

Shaking her head, Maura closed her eyes and inhaled shakily. "They wouldn't come. Later yes, but not in the moment. Not in the midst of the crisis."

"Firstly, we've got your back so nothing, and I mean nothing, will happen to you until you're old, grey and even more eccentric than you are now." They smiled, ever so slightly. Age would only elicit more eccentricities that were undeniably lovable to those who really knew her. "Secondly, let me paint an image for you. Frankie, bless him, would be standing in his uniform, looking all manly but crying like a baby in the corner of the morgue. And Ma, well, we'd need drag her away from your side before she ended up crawling into a coffin with you; I honestly think she loves you more than any of her three kids."

Maura's eyes were glazed over, either lost in the morbid illusion that Jane had created or she was succumbing to the ethanol cursing through her body. Her face was distinctly tear stained as her eyes welled and overflowed at will. She was continuing to slide to the side, awkwardly folded at the abdomen and unable to keep her head centred between her shoulders. "Where would you be?" she eventually asked, dropping the hand covering her mouth to her lap, a dead weight from her usually crafted gesturing.

Jane grinned and laughed before falling solemn. She leant forward, still gently supporting Maura's weight from sinking limply into the cushioned sofa. Reaching, she sipped slowly at her drink before tipping it to her lips and swallowing twice to empty the glass. "Probably aimlessly running around, throwing innocent people against walls and threatening to kill anyone or everyone that might have been even remotely involved in whatever caused you to end up there." To die. She couldn't even utter the words; just the mere thought quickened her pulse and stole her breath. What she didn't say though, was that she would go on a tirade, searching with an unrelenting ferocity but she would also have to hide at any moment, when she sobbed in the middle of a crime scene. Or the office; at the bar; standing in her apartment.

Maura nodded silently. She wiped at her eyes, raking the pads of her index fingers under her eyelids; futile, but still an attempt. "Why are we talking about this?" she murmured, moving slightly to straighten her body as she sniffed. She hesitated, hands on her knees as she glanced at the coffee table, eyes narrowed.

Jane shrugged. "You wanted me to promise I wouldn't leave you alone if you one day, end up in our morgue." She too could be literal, painfully concrete.

"Oh."

There are not many options as to where to take a conversation that culminates in death. Some might balk at the notion of discussing the human demise, the act of finality for all living creatures. Considering their professions, neither Jane nor Maura routinely talked about their relationship with death. Their clients, yes; themselves, no. Exposure didn't necessarily breed insight or comfort. "We could always talk about something a little lighter. Or we could crash, I'm exhausted, you have to be too."

Maura explicitly declined with a shrug of the shoulders; a negative shake of the head. "I need another glass."

It was the need that threw Jane immediately; Doctor Isles didn't need for anything other than fact. She needed more time to deduce cause of death; she needed blood for a toxicology screen; she needed water to physiologically function. She didn't need something a frivolous as alcohol. Yet Jane faulted as she watched Maura struggle to fill her tall wine glass, liquid splashing across the surface of the table and on to the floor. The base of the bottle settled heavily back into place; a cheaper piece of furniture would have earned a slight dip in the hollowed wood. She had no right to challenge. "You're not tired?" she asked, just to say something.

"Yes." Pushing the glass to her mouth, Maura ducked her head as she tried to control the deliverance of liquid. The threshold had been crossed, probably long before. A few pieces of hair had fallen across her face and she didn't bother to brush them aside, to return them to their groomed position. The tears had slightly run the eyeliner applied hours earlier and even Chanel couldn't stop the mascara from smudging. Rubbing knuckles heavily into closed eyes will do that. Picking up a piece of cheese, Jane dropped it into her mouth, chewing and swallowing before reaching for a few crackers. She rested back, slightly positioned to her side so that she faced Maura. Breaking one cracker in half, she held it out, waiting an extra second for recognition to infiltrate Maura's consciousness. "Thanks," Maura muttered, though it was out of politeness rather than gratitude. She obediently ate, until all three had been consumed, washing them down with a gulp of wine.

"You don't want to sleep," Jane finally said softly, observing her friend's eyes threatening to close and her body flaccid.

Maura nodded; the will to argue absent. "You know why."

"I do?" Jane wasn't sure that she did, though the look in Maura's eye pleaded for acknowledgement. She was desperate for once for Jane to know and not ask.

"The same reason that you've hated it. At times, anyway."

There it was; the understanding. "It's the fear you know, that's chased me. The dreams, they're just another mind trick. They breathe life into the fear." She didn't understand the similarities; nightmares haunted Jane because she was afraid for her life, for others' lives.

"It's your subconscious working through trauma, helping you process at a level that you're not aware of."

Jane smiled, even inebriated, Maura was still the same. Less articulate and detailed, less referenced, but still so familiar. "I know," Jane responded. "You've mentioned that once or twice over the years."

"It's true."

"It is. But that means it's true for you too."

"Doesn't change it though does it? That's the flaw. That's my flaw, knowledge isn't action; there's no catalyst for change." Stilling the half empty glass on the table, Maura slumped back as her stomach churned. Her body was terminating the onslaught.

"Not always, but sometimes. You're right, some things we can't just stop by knowing. Life would be bloody easy if we could." Ask any victim of domestic violence, knowing the cycle and knowing the options do nothing to aid the escape. The human brain is a complicated organ and neurobiology has clearly demonstrated the complexity of emotion. "What will you see?" When you close your eyes and fitfully sleep, what will plague you?

A whimper.

"Maura," Jane whispered, almost involuntarily. How quickly their conversation had changed that night, up and down, laughter and tears. "Tell me."

"They'll beg me, they'll come to life and they'll cry and scream at me. They'll tell me I was too slow, too late. They'll tell me that justice is futile when the outcome has already been determined. They'll tell me that I should have taken their place."

Where the perpetrators taunted Jane in the dark of night, so too did the victims for Maura. Two sides of the same coin, equally haunted.

So they didn't move from the sofa that night.

Minutes were spent oscillating between persistent tears and a guilt or shame for their existence. When Jane tracked down her forearm and slipped their hands together, Maura had squeezed her eyes shut. As her shoulders visibly rounded, she dropped her chin to her chest, quietly crying and trembling with a tensed abdomen. She kept a tight grip on the hand, resting unmoving on her lap. It was a symbol of Jane's unwavering and immensely tolerant support, just waiting for Maura to afford herself the same respect that was being offered. It never explicitly came, but eventually Maura fell into an induced slumber, unable to fight the lethal combination of fatigue and alcohol.

Awkwardly sleeping in a half seated position, Maura's head was resting back against the sofa and her legs outstretched on the coffee table. Jane pulled her knees up and curled on to her side, using her arm so that her forehead could rest in the curve of her elbow. Limp hands still stationary on Maura's thighs.

Ready. Waiting. For the next trauma to tumble towards them, it always did. That was the thing, there was always another. Always.

Fin.