This was the moment, she mused without emotion. Would she live, or would she die? Would her heart keep faithfully pumping her blood until it was all gone through her wound, or would someone close it before it was too late?
She had never been afraid of death, and she knew when her brothers were grown that she would have no reason to fight it when it came. She saw her silver cross lying peacefully in her own blood as she'd seen it so often in dreams, by her face as she sprawled on her side. The pain began to fade away into a soft buzz and her vision blurred with it, fading with resigned acceptance.
Her brothers faces danced before her and she prayed for them, prayed for their children and children's children that would never be hers. The instinctual fear of leaving them was lapped away gently as though with a tide, and again her mind slowed.
The crack of someone's body against a wall shattered the peace, and Lisbon's eyes snapped open. The natural rest of death escaped her, and she remembered why she was here. How far they'd come.
Now it was flashes of Grace, Cho and Rigsby that filled her senses, and there was something urgent in the emotion they brought. Someone her mind, trying to protect her from fighting her own fate, had purposefully forgotten.
But it was useless. The blond curls, the superficial, mischievous smile, her irritation and joy and worry and fear, her unfinished business—the only thing left on earth that she feared to leave behind, she needed to protect, she was faithful to even in death. Because, she thought, to some extent she knew she was the only person on earth who knew Jane, the real Jane, and still loved him. And she was the only one who ever would.
An unlikely superlative, yes, but she'd never been more sure of anything. It was a feeling that intertwined with her faith in God and her instinct to protect those who had no one else. Her perceptiveness allowed her to know him, and her compassion, to love him. Her nature kept her from turning her back on him, on someone she feared no one else could or would help.
Funny, how having faith and having nothing to lose had leveled the playing field between them.
And now new images came to her, of a different kind, dreams and plans she hadn't realized she'd dared to have. Happiness, freedom, peace—a future, something she and Jane had silently agreed was something neither could promise. Happy endings were not something they allowed themselves to dwell on. She cursed the thoughts for the pain they brought, but thanked God for the new life they gave her.
If it couldn't be them riding off into the sunset, it would be him.
They'd come so far, and she'd be damned if she didn't live to ensure the bastard died, if not at his hands, at her own. She'd been through too much to die before she could help set him free.
There was a familiar weight on her hip, and she raised her hand to let it rest there. Suddenly her vision sharpened, the volume was turned up and the harshness of life returned to greet her ghoulishly. The pain from the gunshot just below her ribcage on her right side radiated through her body with a shock. Jane's murmurs of frustration and pain coupled with Red John's disturbingly calm drone seized her, and she rolled onto her back, unnoticed by the men to her right.
With effort, she dragged her weapon from its holster with her right hand, and her arm dropped to the ground unceremoniously. A pale, pond creature-esque man was holding Jane, blond and tan, by his neck against a wall with one arm, a blade glinting in the other.
"Remember what Lorelei said? She was right. We're really just alike, you know." He grinned. Jane gasped for breath, eyes wide with fear and anger.
"Using people, manipulating our way to what we want. Except something keeps you for using our intelligence to be the god you could be, Patrick. What is that? A false sense of duty? Guilt?" Jane fought to keep his eyes open. Lisbon raised her arm, and it swayed and trembled. Her grip on the gun was shaky.
"You and I are just alike. Except one chose to rise, and one chose to fall. I'm smarter than you, Patrick, because emotion will never keep me from my goals. I'll always be smarter than you." Lisbon's arm dropped again.
"It's a shame, really. Blood of an intelligent man has to be spilled because he refuses to let go of his pride, his arrogance… his attachment to the pitiful human society. Thinks he has, but hasn't really."
With a sudden burst of determination Lisbon straightened her arm and narrowed her eyes. He had to go. Patrick Jane had to win. She had faith; that there was good and bad deep down, that good would triumph over evil, that those who loved were stronger than those who used each other. So Jane had to win. That was the real happy ending. That was truth.
"It really is a shame, Patrick. You could've been great. You could've been my partner. You could've been me."
The boom of a gun. Blood sprayed on Jane's face. Red John slumping slowly to the floor, and Jane gasping, doubled over. He turned to her, and something passed over his features that should have been triumph. Her vision blurred.