Author's Notes: Thanks for leaving comments! lisbon69 (Thanks! Though I'll still be busy and so maybe I'm not really back per say…), mwalter1 (so can teachers ), Jisbon4ever (They should just get Rigsby a feed bag.), Frogster (No one can quip one liners like Cho can.), Simonisthecuttestmentalist (Thanks!).

Okay people, don't want to get your hopes up. This entire fic is seven chapters long I think and it's not going to resolve anything. It was written for a summer secret santa present and in my rush it has not been edited other than cursory editing by me. It is left rather open ended.

Chapter 2

Lisbon was crouched next to the body in the bit of woods between Sacramento and Placer County lines. They weren't too far from Folsom Lake, but the body she was next to clearly wasn't planning on any water activities from the business suit he was wearing. A shadow fell over her, Jane stepping in from the side to view the body with slight interest, hands in his pockets.

"See anything?" Lisbon asked as she rose up next to him, giving her hands a quick brush against each other. As the local sheriff had noted (and clearly visible to anyone) there was a gash on the man's brow, caused not by a knife, but something else, likely a blunt instrument. Other than the bloody gash and the red stain that had run down from the wound to the man's white collar, he and his suit appeared pristine. Legs neatly placed together, arms at his sides, barely a wrinkle in his clothes.

"Well, it is odd," Jane began as he bent over slightly, "one would expect him to have been hit from behind with the lack of defensive wounds and such to the front of him or his arms…"

And as she had already noted his clothes were pristine, not a stitch out of place, not on the sleeves nor anywhere else. In fact, had it not been for the blood on the collar of his shirt that obviously ran there in the last dying pumps of his heart in a stream down his head and neck one would think he had laid himself on the ground.

Jane was sitting on his heels now, staring intently at the clothing then looked up at her, "They've already took pictures and gathered evidence?"

"Well, some- what are you doing?"

As soon as Lisbon confirmed, Jane had pulled the dead man's shoulder up, Lisbon's exclamation had brought the attention of the sheriff and forensic team. Jane looked up triumphantly and pointed, "He's wearing dead man clothes."

"Jane, get your hands off the body," Lisbon said, already looking warily at the officials coming over. They didn't look happy.

"Gladly, but I noticed how the suit looked spotless, more so than his shirt, it didn't seem to have soaked up the blood. This man had been changed, the back of this suit has Velcro. You may want to question some funeral homes," Jane stood up, having gathered an audience as he spoke of his insights, then frowned at his hands, looking entreatingly around, "Does anyone have some hand sanitizer?"

"God Jane! You are lucky they finished taking crime scene photos before we got there! Never touch anything! And if you do, wear gloves or something!" Lisbon was briskly walking, just under storming, down the halls of CBI with Jane striding after her, barely bemused, in fact he was a little entertained by the flash of fire in her eyes. If anyone ever could claim to have an honest face, it was her.

Van Pelt watched the two go by, not too surprised. It was a common enough scene. From her desk she was able to see down the bit of hall where Lisbon's office lay just off of the bullpen and saw Jane follow their boss straight in. It was a split second later he stumbled back as if spit out by a large monster. The door closed in his face. Grace could tell that the boss wasn't too angry with him from the lack of force in the door closing, just frustrated. She was glad she wasn't in the car with them.

The young "rookie" (she had been working alongside them for two years, yet would always be branded so) had been creating a list of funeral homes and calling them. What brand of clothing did they use, or what service did they use to alter them for their usage? This was just… creepy. It could only be premeditated murder, but who would kill their victim front on then dress and lay them with care?

"Find something Grace?"

Van Pelt looked up at Jane who leaned over her shoulder slightly, looking at her computer screen before meeting her eyes.

"I think I've narrowed it down to three funeral homes now," she replied, trying not to show that it slightly irritated her when people looked over her shoulder without her invitation.

He smiled at her knowingly, "That was very fast. Trying to keep your mind off of something?"

She rolled her eyes away from him and pointedly ignored him. Jerk.

Grace was surprised by the gentle pat on her shoulder and threw a quizzical look at Jane's back as he ambled to his couch. It was clear he rarely thought about other people's feelings (or rather he thought about them, he just didn't care if the feelings were negative), but sometimes the things he did were quite baffling.

Jane drowsed on the leather that had finally warmed to his body. The A/C had been mercifully turned on against the heat of the day, but with the shadow of the couch back thrown over the seat cushions it left an unwanted chill on his favorite napping zone. Really, this couch was a luxury, but it provided a comfort and a bubble of quiet away from the others for him to think on. His mind had been straying from Red John as of late, perhaps that was natural as there had not been a case for several months now in any relation to the serial killer. There were only so many times a mind could obsessively run down every last detail of every last list, of every possible connections known factually and extraneously, and he had these past seven years uncountable times, an infinite amount of times.

Today, he let his mind a moment of reprieve. It was just one of those days; he felt it since this morning when he had nodded off for a time in Lisbon's office. He wouldn't feel refreshed, but just a little better, a little sharper than before, before the guilt set in that he had actually rested when he had promised to himself in the memory of his lost family. He had promised to not rest until he had their killer.

In those early days, in the years following, it was not a difficult promise to keep. He could not sleep in any case since when he did that day would play over and over, sometimes twisting his memories bitterly, other times down to every, exact detail, down to the metallic scent. Then, on those rare nights, sometimes, he would see a happy memory which was worse. Knowing that that was not how it was any longer, not reality, in contrast to the grisly scenes that painted the walls of his mind…

But now, today, he could catch snatches of dreamless naps, moments of unconsciousness where his eyes may rest without consequence, thus far at least. A slight distraction never hurt the process, as long as the mind didn't cling to it as that may very well harm the progression of drifting off; Elvis rocking out on the ceiling, or a curtain of dark hair and flashing green eyes.