Hello,
I suspect I'll regret starting this, but it's begun and I'll try to see it through.

This one is a Red John story. I am very tired of him and wish the chapter would close. I'd like to see what Jane becomes after that. I hear that the show is slated for another three seasons – and I expect the RJ thing is what will drive them – so I wondered how it could play out.
I took this from the day after the final season 4 end and cooked-up my own plan. I'm not American so there's plenty detail I just can't supply. I tried to make it plausible, there's enough room for a cop procedural before the hammer comes down.

If I were Jane, I don't think I'd sit around quite so much. Would you? With his skills and the hours at night/weekends to work with. Surely he could be laying traps and working angles. The passivity of the time-line irks me. Ah well, that's what FF is for!

And, without any question, Jane/Lisbon conclusion. How can it be else?

Right, incipit:

Rings of rust.

Within his memory palace, Patrick had cleared a circus-ring of space. He sat within, lit from above, surrounded by black background. Walking around him, in a small orbit, was his dead wife. She kept constant vigil in this space, waiting for him to visit.
He knew this was not really Angela; merely a reflection of himself. She was a rational ghost, a sounding-board he had created. Even-so, he felt a complex thrill each time she strolled into view, and a dull ache when she left.

"We have many things to consider Patrick," she said. Her voice dopplered, as she circled.
"I know." He replied, not really looking at the ghost.
"List them." She commanded.
He sighed, "Must I? We do this every night." It was a never-ending conversation. To the right of the simple bench, on the dusty ring-floor was a box. The Red John case files, committed to memory over the years.
In answer, Angela simply continued walking. She was a carousel horse on an infinite loop.
"I have tried everything." He held his hands up to block the light coming from above the scene. "Nothing works, that much was true six months ago."
"So, John wins?"
"I can't allow that."
"If nothing works," came the relentless voice of his conscience, "then what's left?"
"Something." He whispered.
"But nothing eclipses something Patrick. Nothing means there's nothing left."
"Something must be there. I wish it so."
"Then list them."
He shifted his position. In the physical world he was immobile on his leather couch in the CBI. Part of him filtered the many sounds from that sphere. Wayne, Cho and Grace were atypically quiet. Lisbon had been sequestered with the higher-ups all day.
He returned to the ring.

One. John has eyes in the FBI. Those eyes probably extend into the CBI.
Two. He will never trust me again. He was almost a mark, but now he's a carny.
Three. He must silence Lorelei, unless she's yet another ruse.
Four. He will come for Teresa — and here he felt actual fear — and likely one or more of the team.
"Go on," said Angela.
"It means, I can trust only her and that she may die."
That was the essence. He was between the Devil and the deep red sea.
"I can't stay here," he meant the CBI. Angela nodded, "And I can't drop-out again. That act is blown."
"John is supernatural." She said plainly.
"I can't think that!" He said aloud, his voice breaking into the world.

"Jane?" Grace asked. The others fell silent.
"He's not speaking to us," Cho observed, dismissing the moment.

I won't accept that. He softened, realizing he'd been overheard.
"If he is not supernatural, then he must be natural."
"A man."
"If he is a man," round and round, "he must be weak — somewhere."
"But nothing works." The old complaint circled as often as Angela.
"How long do we wait Patrick?"
He paused. How long? Another year; another ten? How many victims would John claim in that time?
"How much more failure can I take?"
"As much as takes you to the grave, my darling." Came the reply.
"And if I stop trying, before then?" He looked up at her as she passed. "Do I get to live for a while?"
"You know the answer to that."
I can't give up. It didn't need saying.
"Summarize." Commanded the ghost.
"I cannot reach him within the law, I cannot reach him alone. I cannot turn away, he will not let me. I cannot risk Teresa or the others and I cannot save them."
"Do you care?"
It was a hurtful question, coming from his own psyche. There was no need to defend himself in here.
"Yes." It was simple.
He cared about the others. He cared about Teresa, but that was another layer of the palace, a flight of steps down beneath the ring that he never visited. He cared that John was free. He cared that he was losing the fight, that he was less.
"Which care is stronger?"
"John can't be better than me. Can he?"
"A better mind. A better actor. A better predator?" Her voice sing-songed, hypnotically.
"No!" He was agitated.

"—ake up!" Someone was tugging his jacket. "Jane."
It was Grace, her perfume was signature. "You're having a bad dream—"
He shrugged and turned into the pillows.
"Fine." She said, obviously hurt.
"Leave him be." Came Wayne's voice.

"So, you fear he is better than you. Is that all you care about?" The circus again.
"No. You know it's not!"
"Tsk tsk. Raising your voice to your imaginary wife." She chided him, "You are not well."
He smiled. For a moment he wondered if there was another memory palace within the ghost's head, with a homunculus Jane sitting in a smaller ring and another ghost circling him.
"Fleas and dogs to bite 'em—"
"So on, ad infinitum." She finished.
"I can't help it, Angela. It's almost ten years." He paused again. She kept pacing.
"Ten years," he said sadly, "of being isolated."
"You do know that you are getting worse, don't you love?"
"I do," he rubbed his head, "I'm talking to a ghost."
"Touché." She said, from behind him. Her voice circling, "But humour won't protect you from the facts."
"I may die before I finish this—"
"childish," she interjected.
"— vendetta." He carried-on, disregarding the irony of his own mind.
"But what are you without your revenge?"
"I'm also a ghost, how can I know?" He answered his ghost.
"Is there nothing real for you?" She asked.
"There might be, but I'm not alive."
"Kristina Fry may have been perfect, after all."
Now this was a new thought. He looked more closely at it.
"She was interesting."
"So close to the past, so redolent of your talents." Said Angela.
"She was almost.. you.. but more—"
"And now she's undead; another similarity." The ghost pointed out.
"So, I was attracted to her because she reminds me of you?"
"Of course. Because you are lost in time Patrick."
"Is that?"
"Yes, it's his weapon. He has locked you into your past."

"Every moment is amber." He spoke aloud, waking up.

He blinked his eyes, the room came into focus. The others were watching him slyly. He grinned and sat slowly.
"Hello." He said ruefully. They acknowledged him for a moment before looking away, their trust obviously wavering.
He stretched, arms akimbo, "Anyone seen Lisbon?" He asked.
"She's still upstairs." Cho.
"I think I'll go see what's keeping her." He stood quickly and slid out.
"What was that all about?" Asked Wayne.
"Who knows." Cho said, aggressive.

..xx..

Teresa had endured a long day of double and triple questions fired at her from all sides. Agent Darcy had wavered, going from stern to defensive. She could not decide which side the FBI agent was on.
All she knew was that she felt terribly alone and there was no sun. Red John was a cloud that ate the sky. With each failure she had lost hope.
Imagine what Jane is feeling, she scolded herself.
Jane. Her partner; her friend. That strange tormented man who could be anything at all. Who was he? She had seen him flow from role to role; one act after another. There were no seams to his illusions. How could she know which was the real Jane; which truths shared were true?
She expelled a breath, her face scrunching into that trademark Lisbon look. How powerless could a person feel before they simply gave-up feeling?

"Found you!" It was Jane. She was not in the mood and fury suddenly rose.
"So what?"
"Uh—" He blinked. They were temporarily alone in a corridor.
She raised her arms and cocked her head, "What do you want, Jane?"
Caught by surprise and still dazed by his ghost he could not stop himself from saying, "To talk to you."
She dropped her arms and took a deep breath. "Yeah, that would be a good idea."
"That's the spirit." He said, mustering lightness.
"A good idea, but bad timing." She started moving again, "Later perhaps."