(Mooooorning.)

Gently. A whisper here, a flutter there. And a minute or two to get used to the fact.

(Hi.)

The second warning's a bit more punchy, expectant. Only a few seconds before nudging into irritation.

(Hey.)

In that haze between sleeping and waking, she almost welcomes it, because everything just feels….

But then.

(Hey! You! With the crazy hair and the morning breath!)

Feather-light becomes sharp and insistent – a swift kick that shocks her fully out of sleep. The pretence is over, the rusty halo thrown aside, saccharine smile bleeding into a smirk. Not that she can see any of it, but after… what? 24 days? 34?, it helps to give the little devil some personality.

Much more of this and she'll have to name him. Hellboy, maybe. Or Lucifer. Something simple and to the point.

(I've always been partial to Prince of Darkness, myself.)

Yeah, that's not happening – and she just stops herself from saying it aloud.

This much is clear as crystal: sexual frustration is slowly driving her insane.

(You're a real treat in the morning, you know that? An absolute fucking delight.)

Oh, there had been some sort of Jiminy Cricket-angel hybrid to counterbalance at the start – very preachy and Catholic, though in many ways, very right. But it had slowly stopped talking and eventually vanished altogether. The other side got the better of it somehow, that much is obvious. She thinks it must have been some sort of bullied strip-poker, because the little devil gives the impression that he he's stolen the winged robe and halo and uses them for evil – and possibly to go clubbing on the weekends.

(And speaking of fucking. And delights…. )

It used to be much easier to ignore.

She doesn't quite remember when it started. Maybe it was with that dress and those ridiculously high shoes (I'm hearing boobs and legs here – you can't pretend to love fashion), and the way she felt like she'd been punched in the gut at the sight of them.

She hasn't been able to shake the image. And it certainly doesn't help that every day there's a new dress and new shoes (same boobs and legs though – fan-fucking-tastic) and some sort of Google-mouth lecture on hormones and erogenous zones that seems to have less and less to do with each new case. Words like anterior cingulate cortex and oxytocin and nucleus accumbens should mean nothing to her, and instead they make her mouth go dry and her legs turn to jelly.

And somehow she's just supposed to carry on with business as usual, as though nothing's changed.

(Oh, so you think nothing's changed? Really? How can I explain this to you in terms you'll understand…? So once upon a time, there was this bear just up from hibernation and it really wanted to do unspeakable things with this other bear, who just happened to be its best friend – only instead of doing fucking anything about it, the bear just growled and stomped around and basically acted like a gigantic asshole to all the other bears, including the objects of its bear-fection.)

Okay, so maybe not exactly business as usual. Maybe that's become something else entirely.

(Bingo. Speaking of which….)

And still, there's that split-second every morning – that moment just after she snaps awake, drenched in sweat – that she hopes this will be the day that breaks the cycle. The morning she'll actually ignore the part of her that keeps spurring her to do things she really shouldn't be doing even though, God, it always feels so fucking good.

(It does, doesn't it? You know you want it. Need it. Your hand's already slipped down to the band of your sweatpants, your fingers toying with the top of that sorry excuse for clothing that you call underwear. Bet you didn't notice that, did you? And they're wet already.)

No.

No no no no no no nooooo….

Except… yes?

(Yes. It was a good one this morning, wasn't it? Everything slick and smooth and frenzied. And you had her screaming. A few more minutes of that and you probably wouldn't even need to do a damn thing – a female fucking wet dream. But that wouldn't be enough for you, would it? You'd pretend it would, and get up and go about your business, and five minutes later, you'd be gasping in the shower. Twice, I bet.)

She swallows. Hard. Presses her thighs together to try to stifle some of the ache.

It has the opposite effect. This is very quickly getting out of hand.

(Not out. In. Of hand, I mean. You've got two. And you know what to do with them. Because you can still hear her breathing, can't you? Still catch the scent of her shampoo and perfume in the air. Though don't try to pretend to know what it is, you'll only embarrass yourself. And you're wasting time – it's only making things worse.)

Jane sighs, doesn't even bother to open her eyes this time. It's routine at this point, almost robotic. The alarm goes off – or it doesn't. And she's throbbing. She fights – probably not hard enough – to block it, forget it, hell, even get angry at it. But whether she tries to shower or reason or eat the feeling away, eventually all she can hear is the fucking Divinyls in her head (I have a lovely singing voice and you know it), and she follows the lyrics as if they're do-or-die instructions.

Too many mornings – and a few awkward afternoons – have taught her that there's only one way to half-satisfy the ache, so there's not much point pretending.

(Now you're making sense. And getting it off before your shower – or in your shower – or leaning over the kitchen counter and a soggy bowl of cereal – is far better than those guilt-ridden, fast and furtive touches in the front seat of your car in a dark corner of the parking garage… or the handicapped stall in the women's bathroom where you just know the scent and guilt and flushed-cheeks-of-it-all follows you to your desk and the elevator and far worse, the morgue. Plus then you have to be silent, Jane, nearly choking on her name as it struggles to leave your throat, and you know that's not nearly as much fun.)

She throws her arm over her eyes for good measure, the added pressure swirling the darkness behind her closed lids. A picture forms, breaks, and regroups again – a variation on a common theme that has gotten increasingly more vivid (and explicit and naked) lately.

'Jane? Anything I can do to help?'

(Nice. A touch of realism.)

Maura's voice is soft with sleep, arched with a question that's delightfully teasing. It's a different riff on what she normally imagines, so far gone at the point of the actual deed that only a few flashes of a scene are all she needs. Her fingertip's there already, barely dipping in and already drenched. (If you touch yourself now you'll be there already. You should draw this one out. Taste yourself on your fingers and pretend it's—)

'Or would you rather I give you some privacy?'

The bed shifts beneath her. (Now, your imagination hasn't gotten that good, has it? Pretending your fingers are hers is one thing, but actually feeling the earth move beneath you? It's a bit cliché, isn't it?) Jane's sitting up in an instant, her breath coming fast, head spinning for far too many reasons.

Son of a bitch.

'Maura.'

(Ohhhhh, right. I knew there was something I was forgetting. Awk-waaaard.)

The name alone is enough to stop the other woman, but Jane reaches out a hand for good measure – at least having enough wits about her to make sure it isn't that one. It's hard to read her friend's expression in the darkness of a rain-soaked early morning. And there are only three things she can seem to wrap her brain around: it's far too early, there's probably not a greeting card for this sort of situation, and if it were possible to kill the devil on your own shoulder, she'd do it in a heartbeat.

(I take that as a compliment.)

The wind picks up at just the right angle, hurling raindrops angrily against the window as if trying to break the silence. It's in that sound that she remembers: Maura appearing at her door with a small smile and a bottle of wine. (You're skating right past the wet t-shirt contest bit? Really?)

Okay, yes. Maura appearing at her door with a small smile, a bottle of wine, and her bra clearly visible through her soaked blouse. Eyes up, soldier playing like a mantra in Jane's head as Maura uses fancy words to explain how the day's gloomy drizzle had rocketed into a cats-and-dogs downpour in the few seconds between her car and Jane's building. So there was Maura changing into her clothes in her bathroom and then sitting cross-legged on her bed – and there was Jane, standing silly and stupid in the doorway, unable to scrape together a valid reason as to why they really shouldn't be on the bed at all.

Somewhere between then and now, the normal post-difficult-case wind-down inadvertently became a slumber party (minus the glitter art and naked pillow fights, unfortunately) as they lounged on the bed, talking about nothing with far too many words, and waiting for the rain to die down.

She tries again. 'Maura, I….' And with a shrug, she lets it hang.

(Here, let me help. Jane, this is Maura. Maura, Jane. Now, Maura, Jane's been dreaming about touching your fantastic tits for weeks now, so if you could just be a darling and lift your shirt a little. Or pull it down. I don't think Jane's all that picky about access, are you, Jane? No? Good. Now, girls, either play nice or really, really naughty – anything in between really isn't that much fun at all.)

Oh. My. God.

She wants to hide her face in her hands, but that will only undo any attempt her eyes have made at adjusting to the darkness. And the newest thought her mind pitches is less than helpful: if homicide is out of the question can she at least exchange the little fucker for a new, slightly less twisted one?

(Please tell me you can see that this is actually kind of hilarious.)

She can't. Of course she can't. Everything's in shades of embarrassment and you-fucking-idiot and oh-my-God-please-don't-let-this-ruin-everything.

Maura sits back beside her, honey-blonde curls barely sleep-mussed and swinging lightly as she tilts her head. The picture of her slides into focus so slowly it's as if Jane's synapses have reverted to dial-up – a horrible screeching, partially loaded images, and a connection that's forever on the verge of losing signal. But then – there's a borrowed tank top, straining slightly against Maura's more feminine frame and riding up just enough to expose a sliver of skin across her abdomen. Her eyes are startlingly open and awake, given the hour, the corner of her mouth quirking up into a small smile that somehow makes Jane realise she has yet to let go of her hand. She does, reluctantly, but their fingers are still touching.

'Trouble sleeping?' There's no teasing or judgment in Maura's voice, just concern. 'Self-stimulation has been known to help relieve both stress and insomnia.'

Jane chuckles lightly. 'Something like that.' Of course. Facts and figures. Maura wouldn't greet a situation like this in any other way. 'Look – Jesus, Maura – I was still half-asleep, and I forgot, I mean, I didn't –'

(You're rambling. And you weren't really all that asleep, were you? Are you even going to tell her who the object of those fantasies was? Ever? Because it's starting to get ridiculous. You two touch each other so much as it is that in some cultures you'd probably be married already, regardless of the whole two vaginas thing.)

'Humans aren't the only species that practice masturbation. Many animals partake in the ritual even when other partners are present –'

(Hear that, Jane? When other partners are present.)

'— using paws, flippers, or tails. Female orang-utans have even been known to fashion dildos out of pieces of wood or bark –'

Years of scientific ramblings and in the end it takes only three words to silence her (though let's call a spade a spade here, your palm on her nipple is probably helping immensely).

Gently. Quietly. 'Just… stop talking.'

The effect is immediate, and for a second, Jane wonders if it's honestly possible that she's never used that combination of words before.

(Hold on though, Sherlock. Remember that bit about your palm and her… well, I wasn't joking.)

Wait. Shit. Oh.

(Yeah. Oh.)

'Oh….'