I don't own anything you recognise
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Since a young age, Maura had wanted to be a doctor. She wanted to help people. She wanted to make them happy. But most of all, she wanted to heal them. She wanted to take away what was hurting and replace it with something better, even if it was just a renewed sense of hope. Of course, there had been the death sentences she had delivered ("I'm so sorry, there was nothing we could do;" "It's terminal," and so on), but maybe she liked to think she took good care of her patients and did her duty.
What her professors throughout medical school had failed to mention was that sometimes doctors needed someone too. Maura had no idea she was missing something until she met Jane, and the gaping hole inside her was filled with the cheeky, sarcastic wit of the brunette detective. She had grown accustomed to it. She had latched onto the friendship like a drowning sailor to a lifeboat and clung on as their relationship threw her in every direction all at the same time. It was addictive. Jane was addictive.
Everything Maura knew, everything she believed, was based on science. In this case, science dictated that Jane was wrong. In order to have friends, you had to offer something in return, whether material or emotional, and if only one person could see it, if only one person thought it worth her time becoming friends with Maura, chances were, whatever Maura had never existed in the first place.
Jane was wrong.
There had to be some natural repulsion – she only attracted the most dangerous of partners, the evilest of men – from which the detective was somehow shielded, drawn into the clutches of Maura's stone cold, unrelenting love.
It was draining. She couldn't turn it off, and as a result the list of things that she loved about Jane grew and grew until it was all she could think about, until it consumed her.
She needed Jane.
And in that moment, she knew that those in the medical profession were not safe from needing healing. She could not survive without her best friend. She needed the comfort and the reassurance that someone was always there for her. Loneliness was a situation she was all too familiar with and she wasn't going to go back to the gulf of despair from which Jane had drawn her unless it was really, truly necessary.
The problem was she needed Jane to come back. She needed Jane to help her, to love her, to heal her, to rescue her. To become her sanctuary again. To make her whole. But Jane couldn't hear her, couldn't hear her silent plea in the morgue, and couldn't understand that she was more than a best friend to her. More than a best friend. A saviour.