Title: Turning Tables
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Not it.
Category: Jane/Lisbon
Spoilers: 3x23/3x24
Timeline: Immediately following the S3 finale.
Summary: Jane always knew that when he killed Red John, things were going to change between him and Lisbon. What he didn't know was how. In the aftermath of Red John's death, nothing goes according to plan.
Author's Note: Let's forget that I'm coming a little late to the party and embrace the fact that I showed up at all. I've been planning this story basically since the night last year's season finale aired, but life got in my way and I am only getting a chance to work on it now. I did want to get the prologue up before the season premiere airs in the US tomorrow night, since I will most certainly be veering in a very different direction from the one the show takes. I've been avoiding spoilers for the express purpose of preventing them from influencing my plans for this fic.
I should take a moment to recognize the people who helped make this possible. First, hardly loquacious and yaba, for allowing me to bounce ideas off of them in that initial period of panic post-finale, when I needed to ramble at 3 am even though I knew I wasn't making much sense. And to Afterglow04, who very graciously saved my ass when I realized I needed to get this thing beta'd ASAP. She made this possible!
In case you're wondering where I've been and why I'm popping up again after so long: like I said, life. And a rather lengthy big bang that you should be on the lookout for (if you're interested, obviously) in about two weeks. Anyway, without further ado, I hope you enjoy! :)
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prologue;
under haunted skies
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Close enough to start a war
All that I have is on the floor
God only knows what we're fighting for
All that I say, you always say more
-Adele, Turning Tables
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At the hospital, the doctors tell Lisbon that she's lucky. She isn't so sure.
They hook her up to IVs and dose her up with pain medication that slow her thoughts but barely touch her pain. When an orderly wheels her down the hall to X-Ray, she hears whispers of "That's the cop, the one who got shot on the job. GSW to the shoulder. The bullet's still in there."
She pretends not to notice.
Doctors and nurses file in and out of her room, each bustling about with a particular task: taking her vitals or administering medication or checking her wound. All Lisbon wants is a few minutes alone so she can call Cho or Hightower to find out what's going on back at the office.
O'Laughlin was the mole all along, and no one suspected. Hightower and Van Pelt's names both become additions to the ever-growing list of inadvertent Red John victims.
And Jane, she hasn't heard anything from him since she hung up to call the last number dialed on O'Laughlin's phone. She can't help but worry. She always worries about Jane.
"Jane," she whispers, her head falling back against her hospital bed. "Jane, where are you? What are you doing?"
Another nurse walks in at that exact moment. She's a short woman dressed in floral print scrubs, somewhat heavyset with graying hair, probably in her late 50's. Her name tag reads 'Karen' and she tosses around terms of endearment freely. She reminds Lisbon of a woman who used to work with her mother.
"You need something, honey?" Karen asks, busying herself with Lisbon's IV drip and making notes on her clipboard.
"Just my cell phone, if you don't mind." Her breathing is labored; the extra effort it takes to speak clearly triggers a shooting pain in her shoulder, radiating down her side.
Karen eyes her warily. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"I have to," Lisbon nods insistently, which causes her to cough. "My team... I have to check on them."
"Shouldn't they be checking up on you?" Although still skeptical, Karen apparently decides not to agitate her patient - figuring that giving Lisbon her phone will be the lesser of two evils - and waits patiently while Lisbon dials.
Cho's phone goes straight to voicemail. Hightower's too. Rigsby's phone rings five times before it, too, instructs her to leave a message after the tone.
Lisbon doesn't even try Van Pelt; with her good arm, she throws her phone down on the bed in frustration.
"Don't you worry about them. They'll be fine," Karen soothes, her gentle voice a testament to her years of practice. "Why don't I turn the TV on to keep you company while you wait?"
She doesn't wait for a response, walking over to the counter and picking up the remote control. She flicks the power button and the black television screen springs to life.
"Here you go." She ducks behind the gurney and places the remote on Lisbon's uninjured side.
The local evening news is in full swing, and Lisbon, not one for the news as company after the day she's had, almost changes the channel before her eye catches the headline scrawled across the bottom of the screen.
Red John dead? CBI Consultant shoots alleged serial killer in local mall.
"No," she breathes, blinking rapidly and hoping beyond hope that her mind (or whatever painkiller the doctors prescribed) is playing tricks on her.
The plan was never supposed to work. They were just supposed to find the mole, and then she was supposed to be there. She was supposed to stop him.
At least now she knows why no one picked up their phone.
Karen tuts quietly while checking Lisbon's vitals again.
"That poor dear," Karen says, almost more to herself than to Lisbon. "They say Red John killed his wife and daughter. I can't say I blame him, if he did do it."
Oh, he did it. He definitely did it. Of that, Lisbon has no doubt.
The news anchors are arguing Karen's point, one of them already lauding Patrick Jane as a hero and a calling for him to receive a medal. Lisbon feels sick to her stomach.
The nausea takes hold of her being, washing over her in waves. She hasn't eaten since early that morning, but that doesn't preclude her from vomiting the meager contents of her breakfast.
Karen holds a pink basin in front of her as she heaves repeatedly until her throat is raw and perspiration gathers on her forehead. Lisbon's hair falls into her face and the taste of bile lingers in her mouth, bitter and overpowering. The searing, sharp pain in her shoulder becomes unbearable. Tears form in her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall.
Her stomach heaves once more, although she has long since emptied it completely. The pink basin that sits precariously in her lap is completely full.
"It's alright, honey," Karen soothes once more, taking a cloth to wipe the sweat from Lisbon's face. "I'll just get the doctor to order you something for the nausea. I would give you some water, but they're going to take you up to surgery soon enough."
Karen dumps the basin in the bright red biohazard trash bin and disappears out the door.
Lisbon slumps back against the bed in defeat. Although she feels like she must be in shock, she isn't surprised. Not really. The truth was that as much as she wanted to prevent it, as much as she planned to do everything in her power to stand in his way, she has always (always) known that this was going to happen.
She just didn't expect for it to hurt this much.
She always thought that she would be there, that she would at least have a chance to plead with him, to beg him to see reason. (And if all else failed, at least she would get to arrest him herself. Because some days she feared no one else would.)
The tears that have been threatening to spill form once more, and this time, alone in her room except for the constant buzzing and beeping of hospital machinery, she can't fight back. She simply wipes the tears away with her good hand, shifting against her pillow as she tries to make herself comfortable.
(But she can't, she just can't, no matter what she tries.)
She lets herself cry as the evening news becomes Seinfeld reruns, until finally her reserves are spent and her tears dry up on their own. The second episode is just beginning when Karen returns, a fresh towel and syringe in hand.
"This should make you more comfortable, dear," she says, administering the drug through the existing IV line. "Is there someone I can call to be with you while you wait?"
Lisbon looks up at the older woman, noting the concern in the nurse's eyes. Lisbon has always hated being the subject of someone else's pity, but at present, she cannot be bothered to care.
She inhales deeply, trying to steady the dizziness, the numbness that seems to have settled over her. She thinks about her team, undoubtedly knee deep in an Internal Affairs investigation at this point; her brothers, halfway across the country and often out of touch; and Jane, either already in jail or on his way there.
"No," she admits evenly, shaking her head. "There's no one."
xxx
Halfway across town, Jane sits in a holding cell staring blankly off into the distance.
Given the FBI and CBI involvement in the Red John case, he is currently being detained by local law enforcement - until someone else can come up with a better solution.
No one has been to see him in several hours, at which point he gave his statement. He did not hide anything from the police; he no longer cares what happens to him.
The reality of it has not had a chance to sink in yet, but he is certain it will. There is a sense of accomplishment that comes from seeing his plan through. What happens from here on out no longer matters.
Except.
Lisbon had been injured. The sound of that gunshot over the phone, and the seconds before he knew what had happened; he had been terrified.
No one else was supposed to get hurt, only him, and he would get his revenge. Red John was his and his alone.
Jane had spoken with her, and his concern for her temporarily drove all thoughts of Red John and revenge from his head. As soon as he knew that she would be alright, he could focus on his real purpose once more.
But no one would tell him anything more about her condition. For Lisbon, wounded could mean anything from a flesh wound to practically bleeding out and she wouldn't complain either way.
He would rest more easily if someone would get him information. Or better yet, if they would allow him to see her. Surely, she must be here by now. Someone from the CBI must be.
His assumption is correct, as the door of the holding cell opens, revealing a guard Jane had seen earlier accompanied by Cho and one of the Sacramento PD detectives.
"Jane." Cho nods his head.
Jane rises from his seat. "Where's Lisbon?"
"In surgery," Cho explains bluntly. "They had to take the bullet out of her shoulder."
A sinking feeling settles in the pit of Jane's stomach. Surgery. That was not a part of the plan.
"Surgery?" he asks, hoping for further clarification.
Cho ignores him.
"The District Attorney has decided not to press charges," the local detective hands Jane a clear plastic bag with the few personal effects he had on his person when he was taken into custody. "It's been ruled self defense. Easy investigation - open and shut, everything checked out. Agent Cho is here to take you home."
At first, Jane thinks his ears are playing tricks on him; this is yet another outcome for which he is not prepared. But he must have heard correctly, as Cho leads him through the network of holding cells at the precinct, stopping once at the front desk to officially sign him out.
Night has fallen in the time that Jane was detained, and as a result the parking lot in front of the precinct is mostly empty. The standard issue CBI SUV sits in one of the spots closest to the building, and Jane easily picks it out, even in the darkness. He settles back in the front passenger's seat, which is far more comfortable than the metal bench in his holding cell, and allows his thoughts to drift freely, no longer under obligation to William Blake poetry and plans for cutting a monster limb from limb.
However free they may be, his thoughts mainly drift back to Lisbon and how her surgery is going; what hospital the paramedics would have taken her to, and whether or not someone has been able to get in touch with her brothers. He wonders if that is what's on Cho's mind as well, perhaps the reason that the agent appears so tense and distracted.
It is only a short drive between the local precinct and CBI Headquarters, so Jane does not have much time to mull this over before Cho passes through security, greeting the night guard with a wave as he pulls into the CBI parking lot. Without having to ask where it is parked, Cho drives up alongside Jane's Citroën and applies the brakes, bringing the car to a stop. Still he remains silent.
"Goodnight, Cho," Jane says pleasantly as he lowers himself from the car to the pavement beneath him.
Cho gives only a short nod of his head in response.
The thud of the car door closing seems to fill up the otherwise empty lot. There are a few agents' cars parked here, and Jane realizes that every single one of those cars belongs to either a member of Serious Crimes or Internal Affairs. Without a doubt, Cho is needed upstairs urgently.
Fatigue sets in now, and Jane reverts to autopilot as he climbs into his own beloved car, guiding her out of the CBI lot and onto the city streets. He arrives at his motel room, still somewhat in shock that he is returning here at all. The last time he left his room, he had been so certain he would never be coming back.
He fixes himself a cup of tea in the hopes that it will settle his nerves, and he catches sight of the LED clock by his sink, one of the few things he has out on display.
By his quick calculations, he spent just over six hours in that holding cell. Jane wonders what exactly he is supposed to do now.
This was definitely not a part of the plan.
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