NOTES: PLEASE READ THIS THOROUGHLY BEFORE PROCEEDING. Complaints about nightmares, horrible crying fits, confusion (unless it's related to poor writing on my part; that I'll accept), and general malaise will be politely ignored.

This fic is a twisty alternate universe that incorporates many elements of canon but assumes an entirely different "ending" (if you wish to call it that) with Hoyt than we were shown in the mid-season finale. There is, most importantly, no PONY PARTY. Among other things. It is not gratuitously violent, but it deals with ADULT THEMES. DO NOT PROCEED if you aren't into dark and sad shit, okay?

Liberties have been taken. But the core of each character remains the same. Motorcycles were unnecessarily included in this fic because I, the author, love motorcycles. If you don't, I urge you to consider this... have you ever seen a motorcycle parked outside a therapist's office? ... I REST MY CASE.

Disclaimer binds through all ensuing chapters: I don't own these characters, nor did I make any profit off this venture.

And oh yeah... thanks for reading.

She'd read somewhere about the body's constant pursuit of a state of balance. Salt and water. A biological quid pro quo that she was pretty convinced extended to the mental. The metaphysical. And so it was that Jane found that the further she withdrew from other people, from the world, the closer she got to herself.

Whoever that was.

Right now she was a stranger, an interloper in a city that bore absolutely zero resemblance to the place she called home. She'd barely ever left Boston up until recently; now it felt thousands of miles away because it was. And each mile, Jane reached a gloved hand to her lower back, had been tough. Every single mile.

The '72 flat tracker was not built for cross-country riding, but Jane had put her usual amount of preparation into this trip, and so wasn't even remotely surprised when the bag she'd packed wouldn't fit strapped across the bike's seat and rear fender. Instead she'd shrugged and dumped the bag right there in the street, tossing its contents into the trunk of her car and taking with her only a change of clothes and a second pair of boots. That much would fit.

And now her jeans were worn soft, almost too soft, from days of riding. Sweat hadn't really been an issue until she hit this godawful state, with its relentless humidity and waxy sun. Early spring in Boston was actually quite nice, and it was yet another testament to her lack of planning that she'd chosen to vacate the city at that precise juncture.

First things first. Jane breathed in, and tasted something unfamiliar. Live growth oaks that were centuries old, and something utterly, ceaselessly wet. In a way it was kind of welcoming, for lately Jane had taken on an ancient quality of her own. Slow. Wandering. Wise. Hell, it was why she'd taken up with a motorcycle that was nearly fifty years old: it fit her. And this city, as foreign as it was, might fit her too. But it was too soon to tell, or to hope.

She picked each finger of the gloves off, one by one until her hands, scrubbed clean at the last rest stop, appeared. The skin there was light. The nails trimmed painfully close. The scars no more or less visible than the last time she'd seen her. They'd stopped fading, for better or worse.

The buckle of her helmet snapped free easily, and she set it between her legs, to rest on the warm fuel tank. Fumbling with both the flat neck of her leather jacket and the band holding her hair back, she worked them free and separate until brown curls spilled out. Some of the pieces were slick with sweat; she parted them gingerly with spread fingers until she was satisfied.

Beneath her the bike did little besides tick softly, its engine having been cut the minute she knew she was close. The pipes weren't particularly loud, but there was no sense making a scene. The morning was still stretching its legs, after all.

Maura Isles had long since stopped calling herself Doctor, but at times like these, it was hard to forget who she once was. How could she not remember, when her hands moved so skillfully, when her wrists worked the razor sharp knife back and forth with surgical precision? She smiled, but not at the memory. At the scent of early blooming irises, and their freshly-cut ends.

From the front parlor, the Westminster Quarters began to chime, but only briefly. It was half past seven in the morning, and the modern suddenly mingled with the antique: completely out of sync with the grandfather clock, her cell phone whistled. An email, she surmised, and ignored it in favor of the French press that desperately needed her attention.

Carefully she lowered the plunger on the press, admiring the deep brown hue of the roast. It smelled divine, and Maura made quick work of setting herself up a light breakfast. A muffin, sliced in half and then toasted. A generous pour of coffee, black. She arranged it all on a tray and dropped her cell phone into the pocket of her robe, and nudged the creaking screen door open with her bare foot.

The courtyard was still cool; the sun hadn't risen high enough yet to reach over the walls of the aging building. Its tall shuttered windows loomed over Maura in a way that most would find menacing but, fittingly, she found it comforting, as though she were being enveloped in a history, a wisdom. A mythology.

The bistro set was old, and quite frankly incredibly uncomfortable. Maura meant to have it replaced, or at the very least refitted so that it wasn't medieval torture to sit upon, but hadn't gotten around to it. She frowned a little bit, but in taking in the peace and quiet of her surroundings, she realized she didn't much care.

Mornings like this always reminded of her Jane. Not that they'd spent many lazy, tranquil mornings together- surely not enough for Maura's liking- but the tenor felt like Jane. The way the breeze moved the outstretched arm of a fern. Not with any great purpose, or haste. Just so. Just enough to make certain Maura knew of its existence. Noticed it. Appreciated it. Jane was very much that way. Never showy, but always there.

She sighed, and pushed the muffin around the edge of the plate with her index finger. A drop of butter caught there, and she licked it away, and forced a smile for no one's sake but her own.

The phone in her robe bleated again, and this time Maura did not ignore it. She sat back in the rigid chair and crossed her legs, and swiped at the screen. But before she could call up her inbox, a text message had arrived. The number was unfamiliar, but the words went straightaway to her heart, as much a part of her rote memory as each note of the chiming clock had been.

Maura, it's me.