SEQUEL TO "THE END OF THE BEGINNING". I don't own the Mentalist, and I am not publishing this for any profit measurable or tangible to another person.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

SOMEWHERE FROM THERE

1. THE MORE THINGS CHANGE, THE MORE THEY STAY THE SAME

He was as good as his word. After Lisbon and Elizabeth Tierney killed Red John and his friends, Jane had remained with the CBI. Elizabeth had likened him to a man who suffered a stroke and needed to relearn how to live. She had asked him to return the favor she'd done him by staying with the unit for one year before deciding what he wanted to do with his life, pointing out that—thanks to the team—he had made a good start, but he needed more rehabilitation. The desire to keep the promises he had made to Lisbon cemented his decision to stay.

Hightower and the rest of the team, who knew nothing of Lisbon's part in Red John's death (although he was sure Cho suspected) had wondered why he stuck with them and finally went with the assumption that he had nowhere else to go. At some point, he decided he wanted to know Grace, Cho and Rigsby as more than the audience to his magic tricks or the unwilling participants in his crazy schemes. He knew that real people had real conversations with their friends in which they did not attempt to read or manipulate them, so he decided to practice that. Of course, Lisbon knew what he was about, and her amused glances at his efforts did not go without his notice. The others were always uncomfortably suspicious when he would ask about their personal lives. Cho had only looked at him blankly then left the room when Jane tried to explain that he didn't mean anything by asking after his mother's health.

It was six months into the year he had promised to stay, and he felt he was making real progress. Once when he asked her, Lisbon begrudgingly admitted it was so. It was enough to encourage him to continue his quest for sincere connection, although he had to admit he often felt shockingly out of his depth.

He had never known Lisbon or the others without the shadow of Red John hanging over them. They were all more at ease now, both with their work and with one another. Lisbon and Van Pelt had kept up their every-Wednesday, women-only lunches, Jane sometimes trying to wheedle an invite to accompany them, both women only laughing at him as they left him behind. He had subtly made sure he and Lisbon had lunch alone together at least every other week, thereby instituting their own tradition, even though he didn't think she was aware that's what it was. He couldn't be sure—she had fooled him so ably before. The senior agent was more open and sometimes let her carefully constructed guard down, though such times were still few and far between. Her temper flared at Jane on a regular basis, but the strain of waiting for the serial killer's inevitable next strike was gone. In spite of the fact that she had been directly and unlawfully responsible for his end, she was starting to relax little by little.

Her friendship with Jane continued to grow as did their partnership. She accompanied him once to his wife's and daughter's graves. He thought he might return, perhaps on their birthdays, to spend a few quiet moments—would probably even invite Lisbon to come along since it seemed easier with her there. He made more of an effort to respect her authority, and she made more of an effort to refrain from doing him bodily harm when he didn't. He had even visited her a few times at her home—which he still referred to as the safe house—including once when she called in sick to take her some soup and donuts from Marie's.

There were the usual sort of cases, some mundane and some not, some textbook and some difficult. Still they continued on, some things changing, some things staying the same.

Like right now.

She was ranting. Again. All he did was make a suggestion. It always went this way. When would she learn? He usually just rode out the storm, trying not to smirk, knowing it only made her angrier. Things had been going very well in their relationship, both professionally and personally. He was doing his best to behave. He'd been standing there with his hands jammed into his jacket pockets seeming to take it all in that calm way she found so irritating. But suddenly he just couldn't take it anymore.

"Why do you always do that?"

She stopped mid-tirade, her arm curving out from her body, palm facing away from her.

"Do what?"

"Not listen. And argue. I propose a perfectly plausible theory, and because I haven't spent hours canvassing and calling and doing "good police work", you just reject anything I have to offer out of hand. I'm not some kind of crackpot, you know. There's a reason the bureau keeps me on the payroll."

She was still standing there, with the same expression, in the same position, making the same gesture. He almost expected her to pick up where she left off as if someone had pushed pause and only had to hit play. Instead she jammed both hands into her trouser pockets and sulked at him through her bangs like a rebellious teenager.

"I don't do that all of the time."

"Yes. Yes, you do. Even now, you're arguing about whether or not you argue. I can tell you're not sure. You're doing a mental check, trying to come up with the one time—the one time—you didn't automatically argue with me."

She wanted to take offense, but when she really looked at him, she could tell he was somewhat hurt. It was true, what he said. She knew it was because she actually did it on purpose as well as on principle. It was a defense mechanism. If she could put the brakes on at the beginning, it would keep things from getting out of hand. It would slow everything down—slow him down—so she wouldn't feel like she was losing control.

"Uh-huh." He lowered himself to her eye level as he released one hand from its pocket and pointed his finger, just inches away from her face. "That's it, Lisbon. Let realization dawn."

When she saw his arrogance start to resurface along with his opened-mouth smile, any sympathy or guilt she felt faded away. Childishly, she wanted to take hold of his finger and bend it back, catching herself when she realized the team as well as most of the floor was watching the exchange. All she could do was stand there and simmer.

Jane certainly wasn't a crackpot. He could see the warning signs. A year ago, he would have gleefully pushed her over the edge. But not now. He didn't want to keep up the game in public. Making her blush was one thing, but embarrassing her in front of the others was something else. He suggested they continue their discussion in the SUV on the way to question the widow of their recent murder victim, whom Jane had noticed wasn't really grieving at all appropriately. She agreed. Once inside the confines of the vehicle, however, he knew all bets would be off. He decided to try and get the first blow in. She beat him to it.

"I'm sorry."

"You always want to contr—What?"

"You're right. I want to control every situation. I want to control you. You're nearly always right. I nearly always argue, and I'm sorry."

He gaped at her for a moment but found he couldn't let it go.

"Well, good. As long as you admit you're in the wrong—"

"I didn't say anything about being in the wrong. There's a reason—"

"Please, Lisbon, I think it would be better if we just didn't say anymore on the matter. Obviously, feelings are running high."

A strangled sort of noise, something between a gag and a growl, vibrated out of her little being as she turned on the ignition with such force that Jane was amazed the key didn't snap off. He sat back in his seat with a smug expression that vanished immediately when Lisbon hit the brakes at the parking lot exit a bit too hard. In the heat of their near argument, he had neglected to put his seatbelt on, and she had neglected to remind him. The sudden jolt sent him sliding forward in the leather seat, catching himself just before he smacked into the dashboard. He turned to look at her accusingly, just barely catching the smirk she tried to conceal by looking out her window. He decided to let it go, sat back again, and having clicked his seatbelt, rode in silence for the duration of the trip.

When they reached their destination, Jane and Lisbon went into the usual routine of snooping and questioning respectively. By the time they left, Lisbon was sure Jane was right. The widow did it. They interacted so easily and freely on the return trip, both let their relief that all was forgiven go unspoken. It was the way they did things.

Back at the CBI, Van Pelt had discovered the victim had an obscenely large life insurance policy. The widow had filed to collect before her husband's body was even cold. Rigsby and Van Pelt brought her in, and Cho extracted the confession, shaking his head at how stupid and predictable most criminals were. Jane lay on his sofa and dozed as the others worked to wrap up the case. Two hours later, Lisbon walked out into the quiet bullpen.

"We have a case."