A/N: This is my first entry into the Mentalist fanfiction area, although I've been stalking it for a while. I'm not sure that I'll post in it again, but this wouldn't get out of my head until I wrote it down.

Edit: Not even 12 hours and more than 100 views? Thanks for everyone who's reading! By the way, this hasn't been beta-ed at all, nor has it even been read through, so if you see any typos, feel free to point them out. I'll try to fix them ASAP.

Disclaimer: None of the Mentalist belongs to me. All characters and most of the situations are creations of Bruno Heller and the rest of the fantastic writers on the show.

"Boss?"

Grace Van Pelt is looking at her with a stunned expression. Cho's jaw is tensed, his muscles flexed, as if he were going to jump in front of a bullet for someone, and Rigsby isn't hiding his distress. It's only Luther Wainright who looks satisfied with himself.

"He's gone," she forces herself to say.

"Patrick Jane needed to learn that things don't always go his way and that certain things have consequences," Wainwright says with a superior air. His words are empty, floating into oblivion as the people who hear them don't care. Honestly, Lisbon doesn't care what the hell her boss is saying at the moment. What affects her most is that her best friend has disappeared down an elevator and there is a knot forming in the pit of her stomach as she gets the feeling that he won't be coming back.

How the hell did things go so wrong so fast?

She wants to stand up to Wainwright and tell him that everything that Jane said was right, that he's pathetic and that it's demeaning for her to have been seen as below him, but she knows that she won't. After all, someone has to keep their job. Someone has to patrol the streets of California and make sure that nothing is too wrong, and if Patrick Jane can't do that anymore, then she needs to be strong and do it for the both of them. It doesn't eliminate the bile rising in her throat or the prickling behind her eyes though. She needs to get out of here and get her head straight before she tackles the next case.

She needs to forget that she ever met Jane and go on with her job.

She should have realized that there was something wrong earlier than this. She'd noticed the distance between them that had been growing ever since Timothy Carter's death. She'd been angry. Hell, forget angry; she'd been furious. She had hoped that something that she'd said or done—whether it be during the Hardy case or not—had gotten through to him, but he'd shot Carter without a second glance.

There were times that all her job felt like was being his moral compass, but when she'd heard that he was in jail, she'd realized that she hadn't even been that. She was his enabler. Lying in the hospital bed with a gunshot wound in her shoulder, she'd made a vow to not allow herself to be conned again.

Of course, that vow had been broken the minute he'd waltzed back into her life, sporting a new, shiny Not Guilty verdict. At least he had shared that it hadn't been Red John that he'd killed. She'd expected him to share that tidbit of information with the entire team, but instead, he kept it between them like a secret between two teenagers sharing a crush.

She tried not to be so angry with him. After all, he seemed to be regretting shooting Timothy Carter, although whether that was because he'd lost an important link to Red John, she didn't know.

It was all about playing the same old Lisbon. As much as she hated it when he began to obsess, she acknowledged that the only way they were going to catch the serial killer was with Patrick Jane on their side. He was the one who kept them only a few steps behind rather than the fifty leagues the police had been before.

Susan Darcy was a development that she hadn't expected. Jane had been the golden boy in the CBI for so long that Darcy's suspicion was an unfamiliar obstacle. Of course Lisbon had thought about the same things—could Patrick Jane be Red John?—but the singleminded passion that he stalked after every clue had cleared her mind.

But once upon a time, it had been fun to run from the law with Jane. He could occasionally convince her to deviate from the stern agent she was destined to play, like with Archie Bloom, the 19-year-old drag queen. This, however, was different. She wasn't completely sure that keeping this from everyone was the right thing to do. It lulled so many people into a false sense of security. They had all believed Red John was dead for so long. All of the subterfuge was beginning to wear on her conscience. It was almost a relief when the truth came out.

They were on totally different pages, she was now realizing as she sat at her desk and stared into her lukewarm coffee. Their slopes had both been downhill, but in opposite directions. While Jane's slid him towards insanity, hers was a moment of clarity.

And it hurt.

The months pass. The first few weeks are the hardest. She would glance over at the couch, expecting to see him feigning sleep or staring at the ceiling like it possessed all of the secrets of the universe. As absurd as it was, she'd once wondered whether the Elvis stain had fed him some of his more ludicrous schemes, because there was no way that anyone would ever think of such things.

Anyone other than Patrick Jane, that is.

But she had once had a team without a consultant, and she could still run one. Their closure rate declines, but it's a small percentage, and nothing that warrants intervention. Lisbon is reminded that she is still a damn good cop whenever she deduces the killer. Her team is still one of the best in the precinct. It is only the previous ingenuity that they lack, and they can still make it without that.

Her nights are empty. She tries to date, but it proves to be a disaster. One man calls her a green-eyed goddess, but when she looks in the mirror, all she can still see is the angry little princess. Some of the men are too boring, some too arrogant, but all of them lack a certain charm to them. She can see none of them reclining on her couch on a Saturday morning, cup of tea in their hand, looking out at the sunset at a godforsaken hour of the morning. She can see none of them asking all of the questions about her job that make her smile. Instead, they seem almost intimidated by her.

She tries to tell herself that these aren't the right men and that she doesn't need anyone because she's practically married to her job anyways, but in the end, she's taunted by the voice in her head that sounds like Patrick Jane telling her that she is too "intense and particular" for any of them.

Instead, she turns to other things. Cho comes over to her apartment to watch a movie every once in a while. She's relieved at the connection growing between herself and her second. Between the two of them, they can run a team and still keep the two kids—Grace and Rigsby—in hand. Tommy and Annie start visiting more often. She's not sure if it's because she seems lonely without Jane around, but she's grateful for the company, regardless.

Grace is insistent that she needs to do more, though.

"I'm not saying that you're letting yourself go, Boss. I just think that you and Jane had a good friendship while it lasted, and yeah, he might come back, but you can't spend all of your time pretending he's coming back. It's time for a new leaf, right?" she says one day after work. Lisbon hurriedly agrees just so that the conversation can stop and she can go home. This isn't a conversation she wants to have. Maybe some other day, some other time, but not yet.

It's not until a month has passed that the nightmares start. The first one has Jane being systematically dismembered by a dark man. She tries to stop it, but she's too far away. Her voice won't carry that far, and her legs won't work. She can't move, can only watch as blood seeps from his limbs. It's not until the man pulls out Jane's heart and draws a smiley face on the ground with his blood that she wakes up screaming. The rational part of her knows that it's a dream, that Jane's probably safe somewhere far away, but she can't calm down. She continues crying and shaking and gasping for breath until her alarm goes off and she has to pull herself together. She can't go into work like this. She splashes some water on her face, takes a short shower, and downs more coffee than normal before driving to the CBI.

There's a new case sitting on her desk when she walks in, and she knows instinctively who the culprit is. It doesn't take long for them to move into apprehension mode. As soon as she gets proof, she rounds up her team, hurrying to get another criminal off the streets. It's not until Grace raises an objection that she stops.

"What is it?" she snaps, irritated at being interrupted.

Grace holds up her bulletproof vest. Lisbon pulls apart the lapels of her shirt, preparing to show hers, but realizes that it's still sitting in her office. She immediately feels humiliated; it's CBI 101. Always wear your bulletproof vest when apprehending a suspect. Hell, she used to personally remind Grace every case until she did it.

The rest of the team looks worried, and she can't blame them. She hasn't forgotten her vest since she was a rookie and Bosco practically beat her over the head with his gun after a sting that went wrong. She mumbles something about being tired, but they don't believe her.

She wouldn't believe it if one of them had come back with that excuse either.

The suspect comes out waving a gun and he manages to empty an entire clip before they get him in cuffs. Or more, before Rigsby gets him in cuffs. Lisbon peeks from her cover and takes a shot square in the chest. It's amazing how a small piece of metal and gunpowder can send her sprawling. It hurts to breathe, and her vision goes black as Cho shouts for a medic.

She wakes up in a hospital bed, the entire team and Wainwright standing at the doorway. The doctor informs her that the bullet cracked four ribs and she'll have bruising, but ultimately, the vest took most of the force. She'll be on injury leave for the next two weeks and be doing nothing but paperwork for a week after that.

She's never felt so lonely. She never realized how much her entire world had halted to revolve around Jane and his quest for revenge. Now that he's gone, she feels empty. His revenge was supposed to affect his life, not hers. It was supposed to be the defining moment in her career and propel her through the ranks. She realizes now that it's too high of a price to pay. Patrick Jane has kept his own beliefs while altering hers, and she wants to cry and scream at the same time at the unfairness of it all. She never asked for this. Never asked for Minelli to assign her the most infuriating consultant in the history of the CBI. Never asked to get on page with him beyond a professional level. Never asked for him to become her best friend.

Three days into the forced leave, she snaps. Howling in her grief, she shouts into her phone as Jane's answering machine picks up for the millionth time since he deserted her and begs for him to at least give her a sign that he's alive and that he doesn't hate her. This isn't done without self-hatred however; she can't stand herself for the weakness. "Please, Jane. Anything. You don't even have to pick up the phone, just a text message, just something. Please," she says, tears blurring her vision. After a long moment of trying to get herself back under control, stifling her tears and listening to the silence on the other end, she hangs up and stumbles to her liquor cabinet. She's never been a big drinker—too afraid of becoming like her father—but there's a bottle of tequila that Bosco gave her years ago.

Bosco. Shit, what would he think of her now? Reduced to tears over Jane. He'd have rolled his eyes, given her a long bear hug, and told her to get a grip on herself. He never was as repulsed by her moments of insecurity as she was. Even the bottle of tequila had revolved around her inability to stay strong. "It's for those nights that are hard. Our job isn't easy, Teresa. Ignoring that fact just causes more trouble than it saves. Every now and again, everyone needs a good drink. Tequila. It's called 'liquid courage' for a reason, you know. A pick-me-up until you don't need the aid." He'd accompanied the words with a kind smile, but she remembers being horrified by them, because her father drank tequila sometimes, and if violence was what courage had given him, she didn't feel any need to partake.

She gets a shot glass down, slamming it on the counter hard enough to cause a crack. Tequila leaks out of the side as she pours, so she tosses the whole glass and gets another one down from the counter, sloppily tossing back the alcohol as soon as it is in the glass. She hasn't done shots since she was in college, but she pours one after another, her hand feeling heavier after each one. She doesn't realize she's completely drunk until she's past it, her vision blurring and motor skills on par with that of a child. She tries to get a mug down to pour some cold coffee into, but drops it, the glass breaking into tiny pieces upon contact. Her head spins, she loses her balance, and she doesn't remember hitting the ground.

When she wakes, she's on the couch. Her head feels like someone hit her with a pickax, and her arms feel torn and raw. She glances down and sees bandages wrapped around her forearms. A cup of coffee is sitting on the table, the glass from the previous night gone. Her heart jumps into her throat as she sits up, thinking that this must be the work of Jane, that this is his sign. But it's someone else's voice that breaks the silence.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Her head whips around fast enough to make her dizzy again as she stands on trembling legs, trying to cover up the damage she's caused herself. Rigsby comes down the stairs, worry written all over his face. She immediately feels embarrassed. No one was supposed to see the mess that she's created, least of all the happy agent that she considers to be like a younger brother. "Rigs—" she starts, but he shakes his head angrily.

"I'm at home when I get an anonymous call to come check on you. You know what, I almost shook it off because I thought you could handle it. But no, when I get here, there's a bottle of tequila on the counter, and you're blacked out in a pile of broken glass. What is going on, Lisbon?" He so rarely calls her anything other than "boss" that she's surprised by the use of her surname, but she's more devastated by the look of devastation on his face.

She tries to shrug it off. "I had a night. We all have them. We don't have an easy job, and occasionally it gets to me. Never this bad though," she admits, averting her eyes so that she doesn't have to see him lose all respect for her.

She's not expecting him to come around the couch and place a hand on her shoulder. "Boss, I know it's been hard on you since Jane left, but you've got to stop working yourself to the bone like this. You deserve some happiness too. At the very least, you shouldn't be alone if you're going to do this. If you decide to have a drink, I want you to call me first, okay?" There's a trace of understanding in him, and she suspects that he understands the jolt of fear that has suddenly coursed through her at doing the same thing that her father did years ago. She doesn't want to become him, just like Rigsby doesn't want to become his father.

She's suddenly crying, breaking, shattering into pieces like the glasses last night, placing her hands over her eyes so that he can't see her fall apart. Rigsby doesn't shy away, helping her onto the couch and awkwardly wrapping her into a hug. He waits for her to calm down before he pulls away from her, leaning down so that he can catch her eye. "Okay?" he asks, and she realizes he's still waiting for her to agree to his earlier stipulation. She nods as she wipes away her tears.

Lisbon accepts this incident as rock bottom. She locks the tequila away, takes the bottle from the bottom drawer of her desk and gives it to Van Pelt with the same piece of advice that Bosco gave her years ago, and throws herself into her work. It's the one shred of light left in her life as everything else crumbles. She requests to work weekends, and Wainwright accepts with the agreement that she goes home when she's supposed to on the other days. She takes her work home with her, and there are enough cases going on that she can fill out all of the paperwork at home until she falls asleep and still have enough to do at work. Eventually, however, the cases slow down. The workload decreases, and without all of the extra complaints to deal with, she's finding giant voids in her life again.

Wainwright notices. He suggests that she take on another consultant. Someone to complete the team in a different way than Jane did.

She interviews twenty of them, and almost settles on one. A young girl, fresh out of college, who had done consulting with LAPD as an undergraduate student. There's a freshness about her that reminds her of a younger Van Pelt, but she later turns the girl down as well. She doesn't want to be the one to ruin her innocence.

Instead, she starts teaching gun safety to new recruits. It's well below her paygrade, but it's something to do with her time. Tommy and Annie both take the class on a special request, and she has fun with it. She starts to smile and laugh a bit more than she had before.

She's amazed when five months have passed.

In some respects, it's seemed so long, but in others, so short. She's finally finding her feet again. Living a life without Jane isn't interesting, but it's not complicated either. That doesn't mean that the nightmares have stopped, though. She still leaves him a message on his answering machine everyday, but she doesn't think he's even listening to them. If she suddenly stopped, she doubts he would even notice. There's a figurative ocean between them now, caused by their separation, and while she still misses him, she doesn't need him.

So when the Crime Scene Technician tells her that Jane has been arrested a month later, her breath sticks in her throat and a knife rips through her chest, because he obviously still needs her to keep him out of trouble, but by this point, she figures that he doesn't want her anymore. When Van Pelt asks whether they should help him, she gives a cool, detached answer that she thinks over for the next day and a half. Can she just leave him there in jail because he's figured out what he wants?

She caves in, transferring the bail to her bank account and getting as far as calling the Las Vegas jail, but they tell her that bail has already been posted.

This hurts more than anything else that he's done. If Lisbon was nothing else, she was his protector. She was the one who would save him from his harebrained schemes, and now, he can do it on his own—or worse—has found someone to replace her. This feels like the last gesture, the final kiss goodbye.

Patrick Jane has effectively eradicated her from his life.

The tears that threaten to spill over frighten her, because she doesn't want to have Rigsby find her passed out on the floor again. She fingers her mother's cross, and decides that there's only one place that is safe for her. It's the one place Jane would never go, and the sanctuary that she should have went to in the first place.

She goes to the nearby church, sliding into the pew and beginning her ritual from the beginning. She can feel herself start to relax when suddenly, the one person that she's accepted never hearing from again is sitting behind her, the biggest, silliest grin on his face, declaring that he is God.

Were she not sitting in a house of forgiveness, she would turn around and sock him in the nose before assaulting him with every name she could think of. And she does a bit of that, but not as much as she would have.

And because she is sitting in church, she listens. And the more she listens, the more her world inverts. Everything that she thought that she knew is now falsehood, and she's angry, but there's also something in there like relief, because he's not losing his mind, he's just pretending. She wants to give out a relieved sob, but she can't do it in front of him. And while he details out his plans, she knows that everything that she told herself she wouldn't do when he left, she'll do. Because this is Patrick Jane. He breaks every single one of the rules she outlines, even the personal ones.

She agrees to help.

Cho is the only person she tells afterwards. She needs someone to confide in before all of her emotions burst from her chest. She calls him into her office, using their current case as a pretext, and he comes silently and obediently.

She explains. He listens. He doesn't say anything until much later, when she's finished and is now waiting for him to react in some way.

"Are you sure you can trust him, boss?" he asks.

She shrugs. "At this point, I don't know who else to trust. He's never led us too wrong before."

"Except for the last six months, apparently." There's no humor in his voice. "If this really was all for Red John's sake, there's something he's hiding. Jane's got to be closer to finding Red John than the rest of us, and that means that there's information he's not telling."

The revelation sobers her up and takes her away from the elation she's felt. "I don't know that I want to not trust him though. If this works, maybe we'll catch him this time." She wants to get Red John so badly she can feel the itch from inaction begin to inch into her knees and legs.

"I'll follow you," Cho reassures her, "but I hope you don't get burned by this. Jane's never been one to reveal everything he knows before it's all over." He stands and walks out of the office before she can ask what he means by that.

The request that Lorelei comes back with isn't part of the plan. Lisbon wants to stick to the plan. She doesn't want anyone else involved in this scheme, doesn't want anyone else to lose anything, and there's the small, traitorous part of her that is suddenly terrified that Jane is going to do as he's asked. If he had asked for anything other than her life, she'd have given it to him gladly, but there's not enough liquid courage in the world to go along with the request, if only because she's not sure that Jane could free himself from the rope Red John has given him to hang himself with.

Luckily for her, Jane doesn't seem willing to do it either. He's horrified at the thought, it seems, but they can't continue with the plan unless she dies.

It's an impasse.

He comes up with a plan. She finds it hard to voice her concerns. After all, this will require the whole team's cooperation, as well as it requires her to trust him with a firearm again. She hasn't seen him pick one up since he shot Timothy Carter. Jane has never been the best shot, and if he misses, things could go very wrong very fast. But she can't object, not when they're this close. It's exhilarating to work with Jane again, and her heart races at the subterfuge they're about to commit. She promises to talk to the team and he says he'll give her an hour before calling on a secure line. They can't afford to screw up now.

The team is not happy about it all, but they agree, in order to get Red John, they need to take part in this. Rigsby, however, finds a problem. "I can't just disappear, boss. I'm not like Cho and Van Pelt. Sarah will be asking about me."

"Can't you just tell her you're on a case?" she asks, almost exasperated.

He shakes his head. "What if Red John traces all of our phones?"

She hadn't thought about that. It's a simple thing to miss, and she's proud of Rigsby for pointing it out, but he's right. With Sarah calling frequently, it'll be easier to get a read on their position.

"It's not likely that the three of us would just stand around and watch you get dragged out of here either," Van Pelt says. "Maybe someone else should die too?"

In the end, they decide on Rigsby. Cho calls in a favor to get a dead body that is around Rigsby's height. "It won't be perfect, but it's as close as he can get."

"It's better than nothing." Her phone starts ringing, and she fills Jane in on the changes in the plan. He reminds her about wearing her vest, and she hesitates as she puts it on. There is no turning back. Even if they catch Red John, her career is over. Wainwright will feel blindsighted and betrayed. He'll ask for her head on a platter, and they'll have no choice but to give it to him.

Hell, they have to catch him this time.

She finishes up putting on the vest, recites the Lord's Prayer in a nearby interrogation room, and relaxes when she hears his voice. It's showtime, and she's got a part to play.

She ushers him into her office. The fear is written out on his face as soon as the door closes, and she's sure that hers mirrors it. She's waiting for him to pull the trigger, but he instead pulls her into a hug, clasping her against him as firmly against him as he can. She's taken aback by the gesture; this is deviating from the plan. But feeling him under her fingers is the confirmation that he is real, that all of this is real, and she wants to sob suddenly. He releases her, his eyes communicating everything she needs to know, but then he adds in words. "Good luck, Teresa. Love you."

Love you.

Love.

You.

The shot blasts into her, and she's taken back to three months ago when the same thing happened. The nightmare of the dark man holding Jane's heart comes back to her vividly as she falls, taking half of her desk with her. Stars fly in front of her eyes, despite the extra padding she'd put in to make sure she didn't crack any more ribs, and then she's being heaved over his shoulder, the jostling movement enough pain in her chest to knock her out completely.

She's lying on a couch again, although this isn't her one at home, nor is it at work. She sits up, feeling dizzy, pain shooting through her chest. Jane comes over the next moment with a glass of water in one hand and the aspirin she'd advised having in the other. "'Morning, Sleeping Beauty."

"This isn't the car," she says, looking around.

He grins, although it's halfhearted. "You slept the whole way to Vegas. Rigsby's worried." He places a hand on her forehead to take her temperature, and she's close enough to see his eyes have turned to quicksilver as he looks her over. "You're not running a fever. Do you feel okay?"

"It hurts a little bit, but yeah, I'm fine." She swings her legs over the side of the couch, twinging at the movement. It's mostly sore, not a stabbing pain like it would have been if she'd been actually shot. She'll have to take a look at it when Jane's not in the room.

He manages another smile, although there's relief in there this time. "I'll leave you to piece yourself back together. I'm just in that room over there, alright?" His movements are hesitant, not Jane-like at all, as he stands and begins to walk over to the doorway at the side of the room. She expects him to go through, but he pauses suddenly, looking back over his shoulder. "We'll get him." It's whispered and full of intent. She doesn't have time to respond before he's stepping through, closing the door behind him.

This new Jane is scaring her. He's still the same person, yes, but there's something about him that is different. He's more serious, more confusing. His words flood back to her, and she becomes paralyzed with fear. Love you? Was it for show? Was it real? She can't think straight. Her mind is going in dizzying circles, asking the same questions over and over with no answers to supply.

She refocuses on the task at hand. Red John is still out there, and this has to work. She flings her shirt off, revealing the bulletproof vest still on. Rigsby must have been too intimidated to take it off of her, or Jane has suddenly decided to respect personal boundaries. She releases herself from it as well, heaving a sigh as her chest is released from the tight bind. The area where Jane shot her—too low to be a killing shot on its own—is purple and red and green from the bruise forming. It's sensitive to the touch, but her skin wasn't pierced, and she'll need to ask Van Pelt to get her another vest before they do any more detective work.

She throws the shirt from earlier back on, remembering that Van Pelt will bring the overnight bag when she and Cho arrive, and goes into the room Jane disappeared into. The decor is minimal, white walls reminding her of a hospital. It's industrial enough, with stainless steel tables and chairs sitting in one corner. Jane is sitting in the other, nursing a kettle over an old stove. There's two cups set out, although neither is like his blue one at the CBI. She suddenly gets a strong desire to see him drink from that cup one more time, just to keep in her memory palace of him. It's the small things that she's realizing she never paid enough attention to, and now that he's back, she's seeing all of the quirks as they are.

"Sorry about the bullet hole," he says offhandedly as she approaches, and she looks down, realizing that her shirt does now have a hole in it, complete with gunpowder residue. It reveals a peek at the injury forming. Jane's eyes sweep over it, and he looks like he feels awful about it. His hand twitches, even raises to her midsection, but never touches her. Instead, he pulls back and goes back to making tea. "I thought you might want a cup," he says, motioning to the second mug.

"Is there any food?" she asks, feeling impolite for asking, but hungry all the same.

"Rigsby's getting it. Nothing too big; the three of us will have to get it in shifts and nothing too extravagant. After all, the two of you are supposed to be dead. Don't want anyone getting suspicious." He says this cheerily, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He's as nervous about this working as she is. The kettle whistles, saving her from having to say anything, and he busily prepares both cups to his liking. He hooks his finger around one of the handles and makes to give it to her, but she places her hand on his. A jolt runs through her at how cold his hands are.

"Thank you," is the only thing she can say before she's suddenly looking away, a lump obstructing her from saying the rest of the things she wants to say.

He nods, his mouth making a smaller movement, but she can see his eyes warm with it, so she figures he understands.

She doesn't want to push anything, so she waits until later to ask him what he meant when she shot her. He replies back flippantly, asking what he said, saying he was keyed up, and she chickens out.

She tries to ignore the twisting feeling in her stomach as she sips at another cup of tea.

Cho and Grace arrive a few hours later. Lisbon excuses herself to change clothes, but is back as quickly as she can be. She doesn't want to be alone, not now. She wants to be surrounded by her team, by Jane, by the small group she considers to be as close as family. "Did I miss anything?" she asks as she skirts around Cho's chair and grabs an apple from the table.

"I should be getting a call any minute," Jane mutters, staring at his phone. Tension suddenly mounts itself in her shoulders as she waits with the rest of them, silent.

The call comes, Jane speaks. His eyes are on hers, and the look on his face makes it clear that something has shifted. The ball is no longer in their court. It's not until Jane clarifies, "just her head?" that she starts to realize what's happened.

Sheep dip.

Cho brings back the ingredients for a fruit salad, and while the others begin to prep the fruit, Jane and Lisbon contemplate the melons. One will go in the salad, and the other will ultimately become her head, so to speak. They've narrowed the choices between a honeydew and a cantaloupe. The watermelon was far too heavy for a head, and Jane had vetoed the muskmelon because it didn't roll right in the box. She looks between the two before pointing at the cantaloupe. "That one."

"Really, Lisbon? The cantaloupe?"

She places her hands on her hips. "What's wrong with the cantaloupe?"

He rolls his eyes as if it's obvious. "It doesn't feel right. The honeydew feels more like a head would feel."

"And how do you know what a severed head feels like, Jane?" It takes everything she has not to snap at him, because she feels like she would be the authority on this, not him.

"I don't. It just seems like it would be a better weight for a head."

"It's too round," she points out. "My head isn't that round." She doesn't miss the morbid humor in this interaction. She figures that it's better to laugh at it than to cry.

"It's not like the cantaloupe is that much different! Geez, woman!" He picks up the honeydew and cradles it against his chest. "I just think that the honeydew would be a much better choice."

She grabs the cantaloupe in response. "You're just ignoring the possibilities of the cantaloupe."

There's a moment of heated staring before they both start laughing, sounding hysterical with the volume and sound. It was a response against breaking down crying, and it was over something so trivial. They were arguing over what to use as her head. As soon as he could talk, Jane gulped in air, motioning to the honeydew. "It's organic," he says before dissolving into giggles again. It's so juvenile, but for a moment, she forgets about Red John and Lorelei and being a Senior Agent and just laughs. She hasn't done this since he last left.

When they've composed themselves, they turn around to find Cho in the doorway, one eyebrow cocked. "Have you made your decision yet?" he asks flatly.

They look at one another and the melons again before Jane offers up the honeydew. "It's organic," he repeats, and Lisbon hands off the cantaloupe before she starts laughing again.

It's time for everything to start up. They're all in position, and Lisbon's heart sinks as she sees the bicycle that Jane approaches. It wasn't that they hadn't expected to have to move, but the bicycle is an unexpected development. If open fire happens, there's nothing for him to hide behind. Mama Bear-mode has been activated. She doesn't want Jane to get hurt.

Jane gets out of sight, and she's getting ready to move when police sirens sound. If her heart was in the pit of her stomach before, it had now dropped to her big toe. Shouts are commenced, and everything spirals out of control. She can see Darcy in her rearview mirror.

Sheep dip.

Sheep dip, sheep dip, sheep dip.

She has to plead. Darcy doesn't listen. She pleads more.

Darcy still refuses to listen.

She wants to scream. She can see her nightmare coming true, and when she finally gets to Jane again, she almost expects Red John to be standing there, holding the extracted heart in his hand.

She can't give up. She pleads more. Cho is staring at her in disbelief, silently pleading with her to stop. She ignores him. She grovels, shouts, begs. Eventually, she gets on Darcy's nerves enough for her to listen.

But is it quick enough?

They're released, and Lisbon springs up faster than her legs can handle it, trying to get to Jane. What if they're too late?

What if she's too late?

What if she's failed to save him again?

She doesn't rest easy until he's at her side, sitting on the ground. "You all right?" she asks, but her voice is husky and feels like it'll crack at any moment. Her heart is racing, head spinning with adrenaline and concern.

He responds, but she doesn't really hear what he's saying. Instead, she can feel heat trail down her arm as his hand sweeps from her elbow to her hand. His fingers wrap around hers, and she holds on for dear life. They watch as the FBI agents run around, trying to stop the car.

She has a feeling that they won't get Red John this time, but they might get Lorelei. Might.

It's a surprise when they cuff the brunette.

It's more of a surprise when they throw open the door to apprehend Red John and find Wainwright dead in the back.

Sheep dip.

They interrogate Lorelei.

She's shocked to find out that Jane and Lorelei were lovers. It hurts more than she'd expected it to, but she has to keep it off her face. She can't let Lorelei see her weakness. It hurts more when Jane kisses the other woman's forehead.

She feels keyed up. She wants to run to the gun range and let out a few rounds. She doesn't want to talk to Jane, but he follows her into her office anyways. When she goes around her desk to sit in her chair, he catches her arm, pulling her towards the couch.

She wants to be an ostrich and bury her head in the sand. She wants to ignore everything that's happened.

But that's what got her in the Timothy Carter situation. She doesn't want a repeat.

So she sits next to him. He doesn't let go of her arm, and it's quiet for a long moment as they absorb the moment. They haven't sat like this for six months. Six long months.

She hasn't realized what was missing until now. It's not until he's sitting next to her like nothing has happened that she realizes that she needs Patrick Jane in her life for a little bit of excitement.

"You all right?" he asks, and she suddenly remembers her own words.

"Yeah." But when she swallows, her eyes water traitorously. Too much has happened for her to be stable.

He sees and sweeps her up in a tight hug. "You can let go, Teresa," he murmurs, and she's sobbing into his jacket. This hasn't been fair. None of it has been fair. Wainwright is dead, Red John is still around, and she's not sure where she stands with Jane now. "You silly woman," he murmurs. "I'll bet you've kept most of this locked up inside for a while, haven't you?"

She remembers her breakdown months ago, and it makes her cry harder. She feels exposed, crying in front of him, but now that she's started, she can't stop. He rubs her back soothingly.

After a few minutes, she composes herself. "I'm sorry," she says, wiping her eyes.

"You don't have to apologize. " He smooths her hair back from her face, and again, she feels like he's giving her mixed signals. She sits quietly, tucking her knees up to her chest in protection. She's never needed protection from Jane before, but then again, she's never felt so vulnerable. She hasn't cried like this since Bosco died.

There hasn't been a fiasco like this one since Bosco died.

They sit in silence, Jane hooking one leg over the other. "How long do you think it'll take before Red John gets to her?" he finally asks.

"Lorelei?" Lisbon asks.

He nods.

"Hours. Maybe a few days, at the most. He doesn't leave them alive for long." She can remember the man burning in their custody still, the scent of charcoal and burning flesh on the edge of her memory. "Hopefully, we can delay it."

"Hopefully, he'll try and we'll catch him at it." He makes it obvious in his tone how likely that is.

Lisbon shrugs. "This isn't over yet, Jane. He won the battle; we've got to win the war." After another moment of silence, she says, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"That we didn't get him. I know you wanted to get him. We all wanted to get him."

Jane turns his head so that he can look at her again. "Don't apologize for that. None of that is your fault."

"You didn't even ask how Darcy got there."

"I could guess."

She nods. "It was a disaster."

"We should have been more prepared. I wasn't expecting that change at the last moment. The part about your head."

"It forced your hand. If I'd been in Red John's shoes, I would have done the same. We do the same in undercover ops all the time. If you're worried about your suspect having the upper hand, you change things."

"Apparently six months wasn't enough to fool him."

She glares at him. "If you try that again, you can kiss any chance of my help goodbye. Honestly, Jane, that was the stupidest idea you've ever had. Do you realize how worried we were? You could have left a message, a sign, anything to let us know. But no, you waltzed off on your own and look where we are now." She knows she's been unfair, but her anger is taking over her mouth. "Did you even listen to any of the messages I left you?"

He looks insulted. "Of course I did, Lisbon! You left me 205 messages on my cell phone and you can check; they've all been listened to." At her skeptical look, he frowns. "Besides, I did give you a sign. Three months ago, you left me a message asking for a sign. You sounded like you weren't doing so well, so I started calling around, making anonymous calls to anyone that would answer their phones. I used a payphone that couldn't be traced. Eventually, Rigsby agreed to check on you."

"Rigsby would have recognized your voice!" she protests.

"I disguised it as well as I could. You pick up some accents when you're in Vegas, you know." He grins and winks at her. "I hope you don't hate me too much for interfering. You sounded like you needed a friend."

She suddenly realizes which day he's referring to. She looks down, unable to meet his eyes. He had made it through six months and was still able to anticipate her shortcomings while he had survived his own. "I wasn't doing so well," she finally says.

"It's a good thing I listened to your messages then," he teases, but she doesn't smile and he seems to realize how serious she is. "What happened?" he asks quietly.

She doesn't want to tell him. She doesn't want to say anything at all, but he asked, and she doesn't want to keep anything from him. She wants to reestablish a connection with him. She operates on the principle of honesty. "I got shot during a case and was put on injury leave. My frustrations manifested themselves in a drunken date with a bottle of tequila. It didn't end so well." Her eyes burn as the tears well up again.

He places a hand on her wrist, knowing what this means to her. Knowing what her father was, knowing how she would have felt the next day. The next week. The next month. The next three months. It still weighs heavily on her mind, making her stomach drop whenever she thinks about it. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. I reacted badly."

"But I caused it."

"Not totally." She acknowledges his involvement, but she doesn't want to blame him. She doesn't want to bring all of the hurt and bitterness she felt in the last six months into their relationships. She changes the subject. "You can't tell me that you did nothing but listen to my messages, waltzing around in Vegas. Do any more gambling? Can I show my face to Las Vegas PD again?"

He grins. "I only got arrested once, you know. Although they might recognize the name. After all, I asked that poor parole officer about fifty times whether you were the one who posted bail for me."

She visibly deflates again. "I was going to. I got all of the money into my account, and I even called the jail. But I was too late. I thought that was it for us."

"Us?"

"You and I. I figured you didn't need me anymore."

He laughs, although it's devoid of humor. "I was relieved, despite myself, when I thought you were the one who had posted bail. I knew it would have endangered the illusion, but it was a sign that you were still there. That you hadn't forgotten me."

"You were the one who left."

"That didn't mean that I didn't miss you."

She can't help but smile. "You missed me?" She can't help but feel flattered. Jane rarely says things so personal, but when he does, she can't help but feel grateful for his friendship.

"Did you miss me?" he asks, and there's the megawatt grin on his face that makes him look so boyish.

She hits him lightly on the arm, but nods. "You know, Jane, believe it or not, I did. Now, I didn't miss the paperwork, don't get me wrong."

"Oh, come on. You know you like the order. It's predictable."

She laughs. "I think I could use a little more predictability again."

"Want me to get in trouble?" There's an unmistakably mischievous look in his eyes.

"No!" she says before breaking out laughing. He chuckles too, and they enjoy the moment laughing together.

The laughter fades naturally. They sit in silence again before Lisbon clears her throat. "I need to get back to work. Bertram's going to be on my ass about this until the Red John case is solved or Lorelei dies."

"We'll get him, Lisbon."

"I know, Jane. I know."