A/N: I wrote this during my holiday in the Isle of Man. I believe I was riding on a steam engine when I suddenly had all these words and stuff flow to my brain. It has nothing to do with a steam railway though :P
I'm not entirely sure what triggered the ideas for this, but I filled four memos on my phone, just typing away without really pausing to think. I hope you like it :) It's supposed to be around the beginning of Season 3. Late timing, I know. Told my brain this many times.

Promise Me...

You said you were going to take a break after your encounter with Red John. You said you needed time to think. Decide on what your future would hold. I realise that you've been distracted recently. I understand. That's why I'm watching you pack up a box of your things.

I told you that you could leave it all here for when you came back, but you weren't sure you would return. That's what hurts.

So you're packing up all your bits and bobs; playing cards, dice, coins, your journal. I'm feeling the desperate need to make a move and stop you from leaving, but my legs don't allow me to. Do they have more common sense than my head?

You were insistent. I should be able to give you your space. I just don't want this to be the last time I see you.

You seem to be finished now. Everything you have here packed into that box, everything apart from your couch. It's not even properly yours. It's the CBI's. But over your time here, it has slowly come to be known as yours; one piece of you that will always be here. Your eyes travel up to mine for a moment. A quiet moment just for us, before you look away, swing your jacket over your shoulders and pick up your box to leave.

We haven't said goodbye yet. I don't want to. I don't want to give you the opportunity to not come back here. If I don't say goodbye, you'll leave things unfinished here, and I don't think you can do that.

You begin to make your way to the elevator. I'm moving from my spot now, moving towards you; following you. I'm behind you, and I think you know that I'm there. Can you hear my thoughts? Because they're so loud in my head.

I reach for your hand: 'I'm going to find you. If you don't come back, I'm going to find you.'

I'm glad that you don't come out with some funny quip, because I need you to realise that what I'm saying is true. I will find you. I will come to save you. Even if you think you don't need to be saved.

I slip something into your pocket, something that I hope will make you want to come back. I was hoping you wouldn't notice. But you do. You always do. You look at me and I tell you: later. You nod but I can tell you're itching to see what rests inside your pocket. Later, Jane. When I'm not stood in front of you like a hopeless idiot.

There's a moment of silence between us, but I guess it's almost all been silent. My head is just filled with so many debating voices I'm finding it hard to tell whether we've said any of it at all.

You lean down and place a kiss to my cheek. My face fills with warmth, but my heart is sinking as you give me one last look and begin to walk away. The elevator doors open immediately; no time to linger. I curse whoever isn't on the lower floors calling the lift.

You're stood inside the box now, and you don't seem to want to look at me. Is that because you already think you won't come back?

It's hurting me. Why won't you look?

Bosco was right. There is something more that I feel for you. I don't know the reach of that word 'more', but there is something. And that's why I find it hard to face the prospect of not seeing you again.

The elevator doors are closing. A tiny sliver of you is still visible at the last second.

Did you look?

I did.

I'm hoping it won't be the last time.

Just promise me it won't be the last time.