Author's Note: This is the first of my R&I reposts. See my profile for an explanation and as much of the soul-baring as I'm going to subject you to and accept my sincere apologies if you've read this before. 'Sins Of The Fathers' will be reposted in time, but because the stories cover much of the same time period in the Season 2-3 shift and deal with many of the same issues, albeit in different ways, I decided to only work on one of them at once. This one will be comparatively short (4-5 chapters, I think), so I'm doing it first.

'Blue Blooded' is one of the only stories I deleted that seems to have gotten completely lost, so unless I decide to rewrite it, it won't be reappearing. I am working on a third R&I that is a lot lighter in tone than the other two, but it won't go up until it's done.

For those of you new to the party, my R&I fics don't include Rizzles. There are plenty of great stories out there that cover that ground, and I enjoy the friendship between Jane and Maura, along with the incredible chemistry that is shared between every member of the cast.

Shifting POV, but we'll start with Korsak, because I love the guy, and think that the character as written in the show is light-years better than the one in the books.

Standard disclaimer: Rizzoli and Isles belong to Tess Gerritsen, Janet Tamaro and TNT. My thanks to Tess and Janet for creating them, and to Angie Harmon, Sasha Alexander and the rest of the cast for bringing them to life so perfectly.

It should've been a routine bust.

A known gangbanger had been found dead of multiple stab wounds, the bloody knife still in him and loaded with multiple latent prints that had drawn an immediate hit with over thirty points of agreement to those of Dwayne Edward Hightower, another known gang member with a rap sheet running back three years, beginning at the ripe old age of twelve.

Vince Korsak could remember when arresting a fifteen-year-old for murder was a rare occurrence that left him brooding for days about how someone so young could go so wrong, but these days, it was just business as usual, and now all it meant was that the kid was young enough to be cocky and stupid and easy to track down.

It was a slow day, so he rolled out with Frost and Rizzoli for the arrest, and sure enough, they found Hightower in a loose cluster of teens flying the colors of the Avenue King Crips, standing right outside the apartments where he lived with his mother.

Flat stares followed the two cars as they parked: Korsak just up the street from the group, Frost and Rizzoli down half a block and across the street. Before they'd closed half the distance, three of the kids rabbited in different directions, leaving half a dozen or so standing and watching impassively on the sidewalk.

"That one!" Jane's shout directed Korsak's eyes to the one that was racing down the street, past her Crown Vic, designer high tops flying over the pavement. Leaving the decoys to their paths, Rizzoli was after him like a greyhound on a hare, Frost only steps behind, but when Korsak tried to join the chase, he found himself blocked by the ones who hadn't run.

"Whoa, there, gramps, take it easy!"

"Watch where you goin' old man!"

"Oops, hey...sorry 'bout that!"

They were smart enough to not lay a hand on him, but by the time he'd shouldered his way past, the chase was well up the street. Korsak broke into a run, swearing to himself that tomorrow he was gonna by-God start going to the damned gym, assuming he didn't drop dead from a heart attack in the next few minutes. Dieting alone just wasn't cutting it; he could feel his heart already hammering in his chest, his lungs burning, but he kept his eyes ahead, and he saw when the routine bust went to hell in a handbasket, all of it unfolding in the staccato spaces between racing heartbeats.

One.

The kid spinning without warning, pulling out the gun that had apparently replaced the knife he'd lost, eyes shifting between Rizzoli and Frost, cold calculation icing his expression.

Two.

Rizzoli drawing as quick as a striking snake, leveling her gun, voice cracking like a whip.

"Drop it, kid!"

Three.

The kid deciding, his eyes cold as the barrel of the gun swiveled toward Jane.

Four.

Rizzoli fucking hesitating, then shifting her aim before she fired.

Five.

The bullet taking Hightower high in the right shoulder, his body jerking with the impact, that hand releasing the gun, left hand holding on.

Six

Hightower squeezing off three wild shots with his left hand as he staggered back, one of them whining by Korsak's left ear.

Seven.

Jane's head snapping back in a spray of blood.

Eight.

Frost taking the shot: a fast double-tap, center of mass, taking the perp down. Textbook. What Rizzoli should have fucking done.

Nine.

Jane hitting the sidewalk hard, her gun tumbling from her hands, head bouncing on the concrete.

Ten.

Ten heartbeats, less than half that in seconds, and it was a few more precious seconds before he reached Jane, dropping to his knees beside her and fumbling for his radio, seeing the blood pooling beneath her head, incipient heart attack forgotten.

"Officer down!" he roared into the mike. "I need a bus and backup at Lennox and Copeland, now!"

Frost was checking, making sure Hightower was dead and taking his gun, his eyes warily sweeping up and down the street. It was likely that the others wouldn't decide to join in...but not guaranteed, but Frost looked ready to take them all on, eyes blazing and teeth bared in a snarl as he turned in a swift circle, gun still up and ready.

"Korsak, how bad?" he demanded, ignoring the blood, his focus divided between his partner and the need to watch for evolving threats.

"Don't know. Rizzoli!" Korsak's hands were shaking as he turned her over to check the damage. Fear, yes...but anger, as well. He'd seen this coming for two fucking weeks, ever since she'd shot Doyle.

"You gotta let it go, Jane. She didn't mean it. She's upset."

"You saw the way she looked at me, Korsak. You heard what she said. 'Judge, jury and executioner.' Is that what I am? Is that what I did?"

"You did your job, Jane. You did what you had to do."

"According to who? Cavanaugh? Doyle? Maura? What the hell right do I have to decide whether someone lives or dies?"

Every rookie dealt with that doubt after a shooting, but Jane had been sure from the start, right and wrong clearly delineated in her mind in shades of black and white, with no room for the greys of uncertainty. She'd been lucky, too: all of her shootings had been clean, unquestionable even by Internal Affairs.

All of them, damn it. Even Paddy Doyle, except that Dr. Isles hadn't seen it that way, even after the swift conclusion reached by the review board. He'd seen Jane's face, seen the way Maura's words had torn into her as brutally as any bullet, and he'd tried his damnedest to fix the damage as their estrangement dragged from days into weeks, knowing what those doubts could do at the wrong moment, hoping like hell they'd get it worked out.

It hadn't been enough.

"Jane!" Too much blood; he couldn't see a damn thing. He tore off his jacket, wadding it up and placing it under her head, using the sleeve to wipe the blood away from her face as the wail of sirens rose in the distance. "Stay with me, Rizzoli!" His fingers pressed at her throat, found the flutter of a pulse. He met Frost's eyes, saw his own anger reflected there: anger at more than Hightower. Barry had seen it, too. No way in hell could Jane have missed at that distance. Not by accident.

"Stay with me, damn it!"