Rummaging...checking...going through my drawers...dammit...aha! Here it is! The letter from Bruno Heller: Lady Shaye, you don't own my show. Now back off! Ahem. There you go. My proof. I, unfortunately enough, do not own Simon Baker either.

It's strange. Lisbon's never been very sentimental. So far as she can tell, she's only ever shown weakness in front of a handful of people. From an early age, she learned that one of the only things you can control in this world is your emotions and how people see them.

Unless you've been shot. Then that idea is just blown all to hell.

Van Pelt is just kneeling there, kneeling in front of the man who shot Lisbon, looking at him with such tragic, depressingly-still-there-despite-the-fact-he-shot-her-boss love in her eyes that Lisbon wants to be sick. Or maybe the nausea's from seeing all the blood. She swings her hair over her injured shoulder so she doesn't have to look. She can still feel the sticky mess soaking through her shirt and coating her arm. Blood runs from her shoulder and oh god it hurts.

Meanwhile, Hightower just waltzes off to go comfort her kids. Lisbon gets maternal instinct and all-even if she never really experienced it herself from her own mom-but really? A woman-namely, a CBI agent named Teresa Lisbon that Hightower known for years who was protecting her-just got shot in front of her, and Hightower walks right past her to tell her kids it'll be okay?

She's slightly pissed but tells herself to get over it. Jane's still on the phone, waiting.

When she answers, she can hear the relief in his voice. A few seconds of his deep breathing, just breathing. They both want to say something, admit something maybe. Maybe something about their feelings? Who knows. And that's when she realizes-she's crying, just barely, just a little. Because she could have died but she's still alive. And her heavy breathing grants her an epiphany: Jane is one person of the handful of people she's shown weakness towards. It's never struck her before, but she's cried in front of him, recited the Hail Mary in front of him, he's seen her in a fucking bridesmaid gown, and now she's just been shot and the first person she's talking to is him. His voice, normally so calm, is interrupted by heavy and irregular breathing. Because he's close to Red John. She can tell from his voice. He might be feeling the emotions he feels, but he gives it up so he can be focused on Red John.

So when she reaches for Craig's phone-not Craig, never just Craig, simply the enemy now, and a dead enemy too-and dials the number and sends the message and repeats the answer back to Jane, she isn't sure what to expect. But it sure as hell isn't:

"I'll call you back."

Spoken tonelessly, monotonously, as though someone's done something to make him shut down like he always does. Something to do with his wife and daughter. Something to do with Red John. But she wishes he would stop being so damn mysterious and so goddamn guilty. People care about him, doesn't he understand that? She cares about him. There, she admitted it, and yes, it didn't kill her, though it damn well might if he hears it. But as long as he's safe, as long as someone gets her some morphine fast after the adrenaline wears off, as long as he doesn't end up with a needle being stuck into his arm or a bullet going into his chest-she'll live. She can live without him, without his love, as long as he's safe. But she wishes he would just call back. And do it quickly. So she sits there, on the floor, waiting for a fucking ambulance and hoping to God that he isn't doing something stupid when he almost definitely is. And waiting for the phone to ring again.

Next thing she knows, he's being arrested for the murder of some guy. She has only a few precious minutes at Hightower's hideout on the ride to the hospital to process things before they reach the surgery room, replace lost blood, and dump totally awesome painkillers into her system.

But even in the haze of her drugged-up mind, she knows that Jane's been arrested for murder. Of a well-known businessman with no gun and a family. Maybe Jane's gone crazy after all. But that doesn't matter. The dead guy doesn't matter. Van Pelt's weepiness (did she get shot in the shoulder, huh?) doesn't count worth a damn. The only thing that matters right now is Patrick Jane (and the fact that the painkillers are wearing off, but that's number two on the list).

All she wanted was reassurance. She wanted him to tell her that everything was all right because even though it wasn't, it's a good thing to say to someone who's bleeding all over a carpet next to a dead FBI turncoat. It's nice to hear it from a guy who knows how to read people. Except it's as though his skills aren't as good over the phone, because in the dim haze of her mind, she realizes one thing: despite how much she wanted him to talk to her and reassure her and hold her hand as they prepped for surgery, he didn't. Maybe he didn't understand how much she needed that comfort, but he failed to provide it. Instead, he chose revenge over friendship. Despite how much she wanted him to do so, he never picked up the phone and dialed her number. He might have promised to, but he didn't.

He never called her back.