A/N: Where to begin? This story is familiar to some of you. I wrote it a while ago, and it is complete, but has a slight title change from Desolation to Driven To Desolation. However, it remains my favorite story I have ever written (though Wide Awake is creeping up). I was reading it again today, and I realized that I can't let it sit in my folder to die. I love it too much for that. It was actually cathartic to write, anyways. I have gone over this story with a fine-toothed comb when it comes to grammar and changing and reworking scenes, which I think will make it for a better read. Obviously, this is AU, and roles are switched between characters, however, they are pretty much still in character, and you don't really notice it unless stated. It may not be your proverbial cup of tea, but I urge you to give it a go. Because it is pre-written and completely typed, there will be no delays in uploads, and this will be uploaded every few days/to a week. Thanks for giving it a go, and I hope you enjoy this re-hashing of an old tale, and if you enjoyed, please let me know. Thanks!

Chapter 1 – Lost and Found

He looked round the building, his eyes glancing over the dim landscape. He lay his hand on his holstered weapon and blew out a long, drawn out sigh. He bent to his partner and winked, a grin working at the recess of his mouth. He watched the other man's face upturn just slightly, shaking his dark-haired head and nodding toward the front door. He mimicked a stance of an old western outlaw, hunching down and moving his hips as if waiting for the shoe to drop and his hand to be quick to the draw.

"Stop being a showoff," the agent told him teasingly. "You know that makes me look bad."

"Oh," he told his partner, throwing up a hand and shrugging. "Since when have I ever made you look bad?"

"Wearing the waistcoat. Posh, but makes me look dumb in comparison. My Korean seamstress of a mother would be proud of you."

His partner laughed as they hit the sides of the doorway. He knocked on the glass and made a face at his partner as he waited for the occupant to answer. After several minutes of standing there with no answer turned to his partner and nodded his head toward the back of the building, which was dark; there were no working lights back there.

"I'll go to the back and see if I can't get an answer," he told him. "We sure this is the correct address?"

"Yeah," his partner acknowledged. "This is it. The last house on the list, my friend."

"Hmm," he plainly responded, stepping off the porch and working his way around to the rear.

He took his flashlight from his belt and turned it on, shining it around the backyard as he made his way to the back door. Rapping loudly on the glass with his flashlight, he waited. It was eerily silent. Leaning forward, he flashed the light into the glass to look around the room on the other side. The walls were cluttered with news clippings and magazine covers, and he discovered the doorway heading out of that way was open. It was when he shined the light down onto the floor that he noticed the drops of crimson on the white tile, leading away from the door he was standing at.

He got on his radio right away. "We might have a situation, here. I can see blood on the floor, and it's leading inside the house. I'm going to make entry. I need you to call for backup, let them know we are here and then I want you to go in from the front."

His partner confirmed that, and he hoisted his weapon from its holster. He tested the knob first, but he already knew that the doorway was probably locked. He was going to break the glass with the butt of his flashlight, but a loud, piercing scream changed that tactic into kicking the door in with his foot to make entry.

"Ma'am?" he cried out. "My name is CBI Agent Patrick Jane. If you can hear me, scream again so I can find you," he called out, trying to make his way through the house. The lady shouted out once more, leading the detective upstairs. "Cho, there is a lady screaming up here. The second floor," he called down as he heard the agent make entry below.

Progressing slowly, Jane opened the doors, one-by-one. The place was large, and there was nothing much in them. In one of the bedrooms, there stood a lone white mattress. In the others, just empty rooms. Finally, at the end of the hall, Jane tried the door to the last room, but it was locked from the inside.

"Ma'am, could you-" he started to say before he heard a loud thump and a blood-curdling scream echoing through the entire house. "Screw it!" he said, using his foot to kick in the door and make his way into the dark bedroom.

His eyes skimmed the room quickly and establish a distressing scene. The window on the far side of the room was wide open as if someone had opened it to escape; the blinds and curtains were broken and torn, and the California heat was waffling inside. He noticed there was a mattress on the floor that was overturned. Jane went over to it and lifted it upward. Underneath, there was a small, brunette woman, curled up with her hands around her throat. It took him only an instant to realize her throat had been slashed and she was bleeding profusely.

"Cho!" he called back, hearing his partner come behind them. "Call 911. Tell them we have a woman down and bleeding from a neck wound!"

"Okay, Jane. Backup is also on their way as is the boss," he told him, getting on the radio and calling it in. "She's in bad shape, Patrick," he added. "Where the hell did the suspect go?"

He pointed to the window as he knelt next to the bleeding woman. "Out the window."

"What happened to her? You think home invasion?" Cho asked.

They could hear the sirens in the distance heading for them. Jane didn't answer Cho. Instead, he was looking up at the wall in front of them as he held the bleeding woman's hands against her throat.

"Not a home intrusion," he stated, nodding toward the wall. "She's another Red John victim. We must have disturbed him in the middle of his work."

Cho turned to see where Jane was nodding. On the wall, in the brunette's own blood, was a large, round smiley face.

"Stay with me, sweetheart. What's your name? Can you tell me your name?"

"Teresa," she gurgled after a struggle to breathe.

"Teresa..." he reiterated. "That's a nice name. Help is on the way, Teresa."

Minelli stared at Jane hard as he entered his office several hours later, taking his time before sitting down and pressing his fingers to his temple. He sighed and leaned forward, taking in that Jane still had the woman's blood on his hands, suit jacket and vest.

"You need to clean yourself up, Jane," he told his Agent. "You can't walk around here all bloodied up. It looks bad."

"How is the woman? Teresa? How is she?" he asked, not bothering with an answer about the blood. "Is she going to be okay?"

Minelli rolled his eyes at Jane and sighed at his lack of listening about his hands and clothes. "If you consider fifty stitches to close up her throat, then yeah. Just peachy," he replied, rubbing his head now as if he had a headache.

"But she'll be fine?" Jane asked, sitting back in the chair, relaxing for the first time in a while.

"The last report I got from the hospital says she will be fine, but in there for a couple of days and she'll have a deep scar across her throat," he told his Agent. "You go there to ask about a murder down the road, and you stumble across Red John nearly killing this woman. You can't make this shit up!" Minelli sighed.

Jane couldn't disagree with his boss. They had gone to the woman named Teresa's house in hopes to find some information about a murder just up the street, and he ends up disturbing Red John, the notorious killer in the middle of his act. He shivered unconsciously at that, remembering how he had bent down to see the woman's throat open and bleeding and then finding the smiley face.

Clearly, Red John had gotten a little cockier as he went on because he had abandoned his MO of waiting until the victim was dead to draw the face. Unless this woman played dead?

"Yeah, well, be thankful we were there, Virgil. You know how I feel about this..." Jane trailed off.

"Yes, I do. Which is why I hate what happened tonight. Not only is this a perpetual media crap storm," Minelli ranted, "but now I have to worry about how you'll behave with all this. You are on a very thin line, Jane. Very thin!"

"But he made a mistake, Virgil!" Jane smiled, sitting on the edge of his seat. "He didn't kill her. She can be of some help."

"We are not discussing this, Jane. The woman has been through enough. Let her get better, for Christ's sake."

"She could be the answer to getting this animal off the streets, Virgil," he shot back.

"Look, it's out of my hands. Sac PD has her now," his boss told him. "We're done with it."

"What if he comes back? What if he tries to finish her off?" Jane asked, concern lacing his words. "She's a sitting duck with those clowns. They don't care about her!"

"That will be the Sac unit's problem, Jane!" Minelli told him. "They told me they'll have someone watch over her twenty-four-seven. She'll be fine."

"And you believe that?" Jane scoffed, sitting back in the chair. "They'll send a patrol around once every three hours. You know that."

"And what would you have me do, Jane?"

Jane thought for a moment. "Let me do it. Let me keep an eye on her."

Minelli laughed. "No. No way, Jane. You are a homicide detective. Not a babysitter," he said.

"Come on, Virgil. It would be cheaper for the Sac PD, and plus you know I am a better cop than half those idiots over there. Let me watch over her."

"We're talking months of valuable time and resources, Patrick. I am up to my eyeballs in budget reports already. Besides, how are you going to watch this woman when you have to report your ass to me every day? Huh?" He shook his head. "I just don't think it's going to work out, Patrick. I'm sorry."

"She can come along," Jane suggested. "You know? Tag with me and Cho."

"You done lost your goddamn mind, Jane! She's a civilian. You have big, shiny guns that you pretend to be an outlaw with. This is not a good set-up, and it is a code of conduct breach. We protect people, not push them in harms way," Minelli countered, sitting back in his chair and sighing.

"I see Cho has been telling you stories again," Jane said quietly. "Look, Virgil. At least consider it?" Jane pleaded.

Minelli closed his eyes and pursed his lips. Jane could see his boss was getting tired of this conversation already. Finally, Minelli opened his eyes and put a finger to his chin.

"Fine. I will consider your request. It will be denied on grounds it is bat-shit insane but okay. You win," he said. "Now I need you to go home, get some sleep, clean yourself up and please brush that goddamn hair of yours so it doesn't look like a lion's mane?"

"Is that her file?" Jane asked, nodding toward a blue folder sitting on Minelli's desk. "Is that from Sac?"

Minelli reached over and held up the folder. "It is. I am guessing you want to read it? Take it home with you. Bring it back here tomorrow morning. You understand me?"

Jane rose from his seat and nodded with a smile. "Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow. I got you." He took the folder and walked to the office door.

"Don't get blood on it!" Minelli warned him. "And be prepared. It's a heavy read."

Jane held up the folder as he left his office. He would wait to read it until he got home, but he flipped open the folder to the first page and saw the brunette woman staring up at him, her green eyes haunted and hollow. He saw that her full name was Teresa Jessica Lisbon, she was 5'4, green eyes, freckle-faced, and she obviously had a long history. When he looked further at the writing on the page, he realized that these were not her rap sheet of prior prison offenses and crimes, but a full novel on her psychiatric records.

Seems Teresa Lisbon had a long, sordid tale to tell.

She woke up and immediately detected the malodorous scent of antiseptic and the second thing she detected was her throat on fire. She put a hand to her throat and felt fresh gauze covering the wound. She had slipped into unconsciousness halfway to the hospital, and only just awoke. She hated doctors and hospitals. She hated the smells, the frauds in white coats and the air of superiority of everyone in white or blue scrubs. She needed to get the hell out of here.

She sat up, dizziness hitting her. She put a hand to her head and saw the IV sticking from her hand from the corner of her eye. She frowned, pulled her hand back down, and pulled the IV from her hand, wincing in pain as it caught. Tossing it aside, she pulled back the white blanket and turned her legs to land over the bed's edge. She stood, holding onto the rail of the bed for support as her head swam.

Looking around, she saw a pair of blue scrubs on a cart just outside her room in the hallway and her shoes at the end of her bed. She walked over slowly to the bed, grabbing her shoes before heading over to the cart and reached down, grabbing the scrubs. Making sure nobody saw her, she turned and walked into the bathroom of her room, closing the door and locking it. She turned on the light and got a good look at herself for the first time.

The gauze wrapped around her neck stuck to her wound and pulled when she moved her head. Her eye was black and blue, and there were cuts on her face, including one on her upper lip. She looked like she felt. She shook her head and turned from the mirror, removing her gown and throwing it on the floor. She put on the scrubs, watching out for her throat. They were a size too large, but they'd suffice. She sat down on the toilet lid and put her shoes on. She pushed her chestnut curls around her throat to hide the gauze. Eventually, she unlocked and opened the bathroom, stepping out into her room and passing through to the hall.

"Excuse me," a voice called from behind her. "What are you doing?"

Slowly, she turned around and smiled at the redheaded lady watching her with interest. The woman had a shiny badge firmly affixed to her hip, and the gun at her other hip told her she was police. Most likely like the man who had saved her life.

"I'm new here," she lied smoothly, her voice straining to contain the tremor in it. It wasn't her first rodeo with that. "I just was checking on the patient."

"I didn't see you go in," she replied suspiciously. "But then again, I just got here for shift change. I'm the rookie and well..." she trailed off. "I'm Grace Van Pelt," she presented herself. "I'm watching over the woman in there."

"Oh, she's all right. A little woozy, but fine," she told the cop. "She'll be all right." She was still under the effects of the medication and couldn't formulate a better lie or plan.

"Well, that is good, then," Van Pelt said. "Jane has been asking about her."

"Jane?" she inquired. She knew she should get the hell out of there while she could, but her curiosity was peaked. "The man who saved me... uh, her?"

"Yeah," Grace smiled. "Patrick Jane."

"Oh."

"Well, I better go check on her," Grace said, nodding toward the room she had just exited out of. "My turn."

She just smiled at the redhead as she turned to check on a room she knew would be empty. As she headed toward the elevators, she could hear shouting behind her and the redhead running toward her.

"Come on! Come on!" she said, jumping into the open lift and jamming all the buttons with her fists. "Go!"

With a groan, the doors closed just as the redheaded cop got to them, leaving the floor behind. She leaned against the cool wall of the elevator and sighed. When the doors opened in the lobby of the hospital a few moments later, Teresa Lisbon slipped out of the doors and into the darkness, woozy and disoriented.

Jane showered, grabbed a container of takeout from the fridge and popped it in the microwave as he grabbed Teresa Lisbon's file from the kitchen counter. Grabbing his hot food container, he walked into his bedroom, placing the food and file on his nightstand. He pulled back his sheets and slipped between them, reaching over for his pillow and placing it in his lap to set the file on.

Minelli certainly was not kidding when he said it was a heavy read. There was at least a two-hundred-page doctrine of her sessions with a Dr. Sophie Miller. Jane read about her early life. Her father was a drunken con man, and her mother split when Teresa was only five. Growing up, Teresa was forced to perform with her father, stealing wallets, cash, anything by distracting them away.

As she grew up, she decided to branch out on her own, going town to town running her scams, selling people hope in buckets. Finally, he was getting into her recent life. He flipped to the next page and read on, forgetting about his food on the nightstand next to him.

The psychologist, Dr. Miller, had written several short paragraphs about a stint in the psychological ward of the local hospital. What caught Jane's eye was the fact that she mentioned that Teresa had been admitted there for "mental limitations on grief and bereavement". As he read on, he learned that her son and husband were victims of a violent crime. It did not disclose how they died, though. They said it was an ongoing investigative case.

The poor woman seemed to be going through hell. Losing her family to an act of violence, and now almost murdered by Red John. He knew the feeling all too well. Very, very well. He closed her file and sighed. He didn't know why he felt a connection to his lady, but he couldn't escape from it. She had something he wanted. She had information on Red John. He could get that son of a bitch for good if he could get her to open up. He could settle his score.

He was about to eat his food when his phone rang. He reached over and picked it up, bringing the food to his mouth as he spoke.

"Jane," he stated. As he listened, he spat his food back into the container and set it back down. "You lost her? Are you freaking kidding me with this? You let the rookie watch her?"

He got up out of the bed, searching for his pants. "She couldn't have gone far."

As he was searching for his pants in the bathroom off the bedroom, he heard his doorbell ring. He listened to Cho tell him they have a patrol out looking for her as he walked to the door and pulled it open, expecting a patrolman to be standing there giving him instructions. Instead, standing at his door at eleven at night, in too big scrubs, was Teresa Lisbon.

"Never mind," he told Cho, hanging up the phone. "I found her."