Disclaimer: All recognizable Rizzoli & Isles characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners including, but not limited to Janet Tamaro, TNT or Tess Gerritsen. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this fan fiction story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No financial gain is associated with the publishing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: In "Murderjuana" (6x14), yeah not the scene you're thinking, Jane meets with a psychiatrist and he notes that she has seen him 12 times in 5 years. This piece is going to be flashbacks of those 12 sessions. Well, 11 sessions, prior to her seeing him in the episode post-Maura's abduction and the ongoing stalker/arsonist/kidnapper storyline. I'll do a post-ep type chapter for that 12th session. I think those 12 sessions can tell us a lot about Jane and, inevitably, Jane's relationship with Maura. You'll have to forgive me for not going straight after the scene where Maura and Kent were high and she wanted a glazed donut. That one speaks for itself. Each session will likely be posted individually as a chapter. –dkc

Twelve Times

It was the policy of the Boston Police Department that officers who had sustained trauma see a psychiatrist. The sessions required depended on the incident. Sessions could be mandated for everything from an officer being attacked on the job to an officer involved shooting. In the case of the latter, often a single session was sufficient for returning an officer to the job.

However, this wasn't the case of a cop shooting anyone or that cop being shot. Detective Jane Rizzoli had been pinned to the floor of a dark cellar—no, pinned wasn't quite the way to describe it, she had been staked—with scalpels. She was in the sights of a murderous sociopath and he was her prey. In those excruciating moments as stainless steel surgical blades sliced through skin, tissue and tendon, she didn't have the luxury of thinking only of the pain. She was forced to consider what might come next.

Jane sat fidgeting in the warmly decorated office, noting that there was neither a couch as she imagined all psychiatrist's offices having nor a sterile smell, as he asked her what had become the routine question: How do you feel? Detective Rizzoli was merely going through the motions. All she wanted was to return to work. How would talking about how she was feeling accomplish that?

Her hands remained tender. The scars still purple.

"Detective, this would go a lot quicker if you would allow yourself to lean into your feelings," the therapist reminded her.

He was a nice enough guy and she felt guilty for not cooperating. While he may have been someone she could grow to trust, she had no interest in having enough sessions with him to find out. It was a waste of her time.

There was not a soul she had spoken openly to about what had happened in that cellar with Charles Hoyt. Not to a therapist and not to those closest to her. She was ashamed of the decisions she made that ended with her on her back, a scalpel in each hand as Hoyt loomed over her. Not even Korsak, her friend and partner who had arrived in time to save her, would ever know what happened that day.

"Jane?" she was aware of and disturbed by how detached she was from the man in the small office with her.

"I don't believe you when you say it will help me to talk about it," her armor was in place. "What good does it do to rehash those moments? It won't change what happened."

"You don't have to believe me. But if you push these feelings down, you will never get a handle on the nightmares and you will never stop questioning your instincts on the job."

When the emergency room doctor spoke to the detective about PTSD, she had scoffed. She was nothing like the men and women victims with PTSD she dealt with on the job. But it didn't take long for her to understand reality. She woke up screaming at night. And that was when she did sleep. She had panic attacks in small spaces or rooms that were musty. Jane hadn't allowed anyone to touch her for weeks after the ordeal. Her biggest issue, her inability to trust her own instincts, her own fight or flight responses, couldn't be remedied until she was back on the job. The lieutenant hadn't let her leave a desk since she returned from her month-long medical leave.

"Look, if you aren't going to be honest and open about your feelings, this isn't going to work. And if it doesn't work, I don't sign that letter saying you can rejoin the department in the role you want to," he didn't pull any punches.

"I'm not lying," Jane spoke sharply.

"I didn't say you were. You are putting off accepting and dealing with all of your feelings, Detective. In doing so, you control what we can discuss. Maybe you mean to do this, maybe you don't. Regardless, it prevents you from doing the work that must be done for you to move on from an awful thing that happened to you and return to your life."

Jane gave his words careful consideration this time. He might be right and if he was, it was on her to correct it. She wanted to move on. She wanted that bastard Charles Hoyt behind her. She simply didn't think it possible.

This was going to be a lot of work.

To be continued…