Just a quick thought: if Jane at the end just couldn't take the last step to kill Red John, do you think Lisbon would? I know she has issues with his vengeance plan and is a law enforcement officer who is by the book, justice system, yadda, yadda, yadda but I think if the circumstances were right and her thought process went a certain way, she might. I never actually saw the scene when Jane told Lisbon of his plans for Red John, but I'd like to. If anywhere knows where I can see it online, please message me the link if possible!! Thanks!!

I've never written anything quite so angsty. So be kind!

Timeline:

8 years after the death of Jane's family

3 years since the occurrence of the pilot episode

Location: Some dingy Mexican hotel room

He looked down at the man in front of him, the one who had murdered his family. He had planned for this, yearned for this. Wanted to slice him up the way his wife, his daughter had been. Wanted him to feel all the pain and fear that comes with a gruesome death. His grip tightened on the knife. He could feel himself shaking. He wished it was from anticipation, but he knew better. He had always maintained a façade in public, but he could never fool himself. Not in the past and not now.

He shook with fear. Not of Red John, but of being like him. Could he let himself become the monster who had butchered his family? For about the last eight years, it had seemed like a good plan—no, a great plan. Even now, he still had such anger in him. Looking at this man, this scum of the earth, he felt it well up from inside. Still, he hesitated. He trembled.

"Why?"

Why couldn't he kill this man? He had never before been all talk. He felt movement from behind, but it didn't startle him. Lisbon. Teresa Lisbon. When he first told her of his plans for Red John, his reason for hunting him down, she didn't truly understand. He knew she didn't. If anything, the years he had spent working with her had shown him how much she believed in the justice system, how much she felt she had to believe in the justice system—that something out there was right, just, and good. Especially with her past, with the seemingly senseless death of her mother.

Now, he thought she understood more. The years since he had initially told her had changed her, at least slightly. She still believed in the system, not naively like Van Pelt, but rather a belief born of the acceptance that there wasn't a better alternative so she had to make do. They had gotten close. She was a good friend to him and, sometimes, when he thought he could be normal, he felt there might be something more between them. That lasted for only minutes. He had never been good at deluding himself and he had found that in that, he and Lisbon were the same.

No, he was pretty sure that she had realized she would feel the same way if her family was systematically, coldly removed from her life the way his had been. Because of that revelation, she had always been supportive in his sort of quest. Even to the very end, she had helped. She would even perjure herself for him, he knew. Say that they had arrived too late for the arrest, that Red John had already been dead when they got there. She had even given him pointers, subtly throughout the last year or so, on how to leave a clean scene.

He stared at the bound and gagged (Lisbon's idea—she couldn't bear to hear the filth that came out of the killer's mouth, couldn't bear that Jane would also have to hear it) man. The sociopath didn't flinch, didn't seem to care that he was looking at his own end. Or maybe he, too, realized that Jane couldn't do it.

He had to.

His grip tightened yet again.

But he just couldn't. Couldn't bring himself to become him, become anything like Red John.

Catch 22, he mused. He didn't like to think about this bastard alive, even in prison, still able to gloat and touch other's lives, taint other's lives. It seemed like such a staid punishment, not worthy of all the pain and anger that churned inside of Jane…but he just couldn't do it. He sighed, felt Lisbon's hand rest on his shoulder.

She applied faint pressure and he turned to look at her. He could see by her expression that she realized how it was playing out. Oddly enough, she seemed like she had expected this as a possible ending. She gave a reassuring smile. He thought it strange that a smile in a situation like this would make him feel better, but it did. He knew she would take care of it, arrest him and make sure the justice system spit out the correct ending. Even if he didn't particular like said ending, it was better than the alternative of Red John being free. It seems that he had something else in common with Lisbon—they had both settled. She spoke first.

"Wait outside for a minute."

Jane turned in the dusky room, a dingy motel room looking much like the site of Jared's murder. He stepped out into the slightly cool air, watching the darkening sky, already berating himself. Red John was in there breathing. His wife would never do that again. His child would never sigh, laugh, gasp, never breath again. He closed his eyes. He had failed, yes, but he felt as if fulfilling his plan would have been a sort of failure as well. Why couldn't it have been black and white, just this once?

He heard a muffled noise followed by a thud.

**************************************************************

She watched as Jane stepped out of the doorway. She knew he wouldn't be able to kill Red John, especially not with a knife. A knife was definitely too personal. Although Jane was angry, furious, shattered, he couldn't become what he hated. It was crossing a line that even he couldn't, not at the end, not when it came down to it. She had thought for a time that he might be able to cross the line, jump over it willingly. She had even wondered if he would do it tonight as she stood back in the shadows watching him face his demon, the demon that had plagued his life for eight years. When she heard him ask why, she knew he wasn't speaking to Red John, wasn't asking for a reason, an excuse for the death of his family. He was asking himself.

Why couldn't he kill this man who had taken it all away from him? Who had taken life away from two innocent people.

She knew that he thought she would simply arrest Red John. What Jane didn't know was how well she understood him. He could never fully heal if Red John was still alive somewhere, even if the murderer was incarcerated. She turned back to Red John. She could do this for Jane. He hardly ever asked for help, and if so, usually not for himself. Lisbon pulled out her gun, meticulously screwing on a silencer. She would do what he couldn't.

There was a muffled noise followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor. A second later, Jane re-entered, eyes widening as he saw the body on the ground. She stepped in front of it.

"Let's go, Jane."

She crowded him out the door. He looked at her, incredulous.

"You—" he started. He stopped, marshalling his thoughts. She hurried past him, heading toward the car. The less time they lingered, the better. There was no evidence of them being there. She had made sure nothing was left in the room that would indicate either of them. It would be better if they dropped off the car they had bought for a few hundred off the streets of Mexico and picked up a rental, calling their team as they headed toward the hotel to 'arrest' Red John. That way they could call in a murder when they happened upon his body.

He seemed to realize that she was a few feet ahead of him and started after her. He was silent as they headed to the car. She could tell he would follow her direction. For this whole deal, he had not been his cocky, tongue-in-cheek self. They climbed into the car once they reached it. They drove in silence for a few long moments. They had a long night ahead of them. She glanced over to Jane again. Though he was quiet, almost subdued, he seemed lighter almost. He felt her gaze and gave a small smile—for the first time, it seemed real and unguarded. She couldn't help but return it. She spoke first, even though she had told herself she wouldn't.

"It's always easier with a gun."

She saw understanding in his eyes. Somehow, it was different when she killed Red John, less like murder. He knew it would be seen by others as such, but he just didn't see it that way—even if he had felt like one. She was right again. A knife was far too close. A gun provided, sadly enough, a sort of disconnect between the victim and the shooter. Maybe that's why there are so many murders in the world; guns make it too easy, he thought absently. He realized that he hadn't answered her. What could he say that could convey his happiness, his relief, his sort of absolution? Finally. It finally felt over.

In the end, he could only force one word out around his choked throat, clogged with emotional tears.

"Thanks."