Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews! Due to popular demand I'm continuing this story. Rather than an epilogue I decided to do Lisbon's POV (one of my reviewers recommended that and I thought it sounded like a good idea). This really will be only a few chapters though.

For those of you who asked about Just You and Me Kid - I am going to get back to it immediately. It's been a rough summer and I just couldn't get the brain cells working well enough to continue. But you should see a posting in a few days.

Thank you all again and here's the next chapter ...

She was so angry that she promised herself she was going to shoot Jane when she found him. She'd told him not to go after Ziegler, but like always he went ahead and did what he wanted without considering the consequences.

So now he was missing and it was her job to find him. A small thought burrowed into her mind that he could be hurt, could be dead, but she made herself stop going down that mental pathway almost immediately. He was fine. She'd find him holed up somewhere, safe, and having escaped by the skin of his teeth. That was Jane.

"Where do you want us to look Boss?" Rigsby asked. He too looked worried, as did Grace. Cho didn't look any different than he normally did, although Teresa knew that didn't mean much. He was probably just as worried about their irritating consultant as the rest of them.

"You and Cho go check out Ziegler's office and then his house. Grace, you stay here and search out any other places or people connected to him."

"What about you?" Cho asked.

"I'm going to go back to the stables. Jane found something there, I'm sure of it, so I'm going to go ask some of the stable hands if they've seen him. If I'm lucky he'll be there talking to the horses."

Rigsby chuckled and Cho nodded. The next moment they were all off doing what they could to find Jane.

The stables were a dead-end. No one there had seen the sometimes more-trouble-than-he was-worth consultant – at least they claimed they hadn't. It was times like these that Lisbon wished she had Jane's lie-detecting skills.

She made her way back to her car as she pulled her phone from her pocket to call Cho. That was the last thing she remembered.

Her head was killing her. It had been years since she'd indulged in any heavy drinking and she didn't get migraines so she was confused as to why she felt the way she did. The only headache she'd had in years walked on two legs, had curly blond hair and blue eyes.

"Lisbon?"

Someone was calling her name. Why? What was going on? She tried to move but the pain in her head increased. She wanted to groan, but wasn't sure where she was so forced herself to remain quiet.

"Lisbon," someone called again, although it was less of a shout and more of a croak.

"Teresa! Wake up, please."

It must be her father telling her to wake up. He's the only one that ever said 'Teresa' in that tone. She turned her head and opened her eyes.

It took all of five seconds for everything to come rushing back. Jane! Of course – who else would it be? She could feel the anger stirring.

"Jane!" She struggled to sit up, feeling much too vulnerable lying down. She frowned –why was she lying down.

"What the hell happened?" she snapped at him.

Instead of answering he simply grunted something, at which point her anger boiled over and she began to berate him for again going off and doing something without telling her, again getting them into a pickle. And then he wouldn't even explain.

"I'm sorry," was all he said and so softly she could barely hear him.

What? This wasn't like the man. What was going on? She tried to see him in the dimly lit room but all she could tell was that he seemed okay. He was sitting leaning up against the wall, his head back. He appeared very tired was all. Serves him right, she thought. But she did speak to him more gently. "What happened?"

As he started to answer she began to calm down. He obviously hadn't meant to get into trouble and he had been about to call her – at least that's what he said and as hard a time as she was going to give him, she did believe he was telling the truth.

But then her attention was caught.

" – I heard a sound."

"What kind of a sound?"

As soon as he said the word "gunshot" her stomach clenched and her heart started beating. It was when he mumbled something and he began to list to the side that she realized.

Oh God! She moved quickly over to him and opened his jacket. It was then that she saw it.

She was used to blood and had seen her share of gory murder scenes. But right here, right now she felt like she wanted to throw up – because the blood was covering someone she cared about.

Jane's shirt was soaked in his blood – as were his pants. There was too much blood, way too much!

"Jane, why didn't you tell me?" she asked, frantic at what she was seeing.

She barely paid attention to him – although she was momentarily confused by his apology. She had to stop the bleeding and get him to a hospital. God – there was so much!

She managed to ease him down – although it clearly hurt like hell. She wanted to cry herself when she heard the whimpers coming from his mouth. But she couldn't let that stop her. She had to bandage up his wound and then figure out how the hell to get help.

Teresa pulled open Jane's shirt – in the back of her mind realizing this was only the second time that she'd seen him like this. The first had been when he'd almost died from drowning.

The wound – a small bullet hole in his right abdomen – was still bleeding, although sluggishly. Without any further thought she ripped a piece off the bottom of her shirt and pressed it onto the wound.

She glanced up, just in time to see Jane's eyes roll up and his body relax. For a moment she feared that he had died – but then she could see his chest rise slowly. He'd just passed out.

It was probably a good thing, she told herself. This was she could do what she had to do without causing him so much pain. She quickly finished as well as she could with only their clothes for bandages. She then tried to cover him back up with his sopping shirt and jacket and lifted his head into her lap.

"Oh Jane," she said softly, gently stroking his face. "Please don't die on me."

It was almost ten minutes before he opened his eyes and in that time she grew more and more frightened. What if the criminals came back? Surely they wouldn't leave them here, knowing she at least could get away. They had to get out of here and Jane had to have help, and soon.

She felt herself relax slightly when his eyes opened. "Jane? How are you feeling?"

He stared at her for a long time and she didn't know whether he was truly conscious or not. The blood loss had to be affecting his awareness.

She bit back a sob. She had to help him. She had to do something. The poor man was in agony, dying and all she did was sit here and stroke his head.

But was it really different than what she'd been doing for years? Patrick Jane was a man who suffered – every second of every day. He'd lost all that was precious to him, and on top of that he lived with the guilt of believing it was his fault.

And yet he managed to get up each day, to smile and joke and work to bring criminals and murderers to justice. He made them the most successful team in the state – and he cared for them. Oh, he'd deny it, he'd joke about it, but it was obvious he did.

And what did she do? She yelled at him, she gave him a hard time, she ripped him a new one on many occasions – but what she didn't do, or at least hardly ever did, was show him sympathy or compassion. She did nothing to try and help ease his pain.

What was wrong with her that she couldn't cut him some slack? He'd found his wife and little girl slaughtered and all she'd done, that first time, was tell him to clean himself up. She was a horrible woman.

Her eyes lowered to his face – his face that was beginning to go slack. His breathing was slowing down and – oh God no! He was dying. He couldn't die. She couldn't lose him.

"Jane," she said sharply. "Don't you dare die on me." Okay – so she needed to be more sympathetic, but that was for the future. For right now he didn't need sympathy. He needed to keep going. He needed to live.

She hated what she had to do now - but they had to get out of here. They had to get help. So, she made herself do what was necessary to save him.

She tried to wake him up – to get him to open his eyes, but he continued to drift and his breath got shallower and slower. Damn it – he was dying. Please God, don't let Patrick die. I need him. She sobbed, the pain of it almost too much to bear.

"Patrick?" she finally whispered, almost ready to give up hope.

And that did it. He opened his eyes and looked up at her.

"You – only call me – Patrick cause I'm – dyin'."

"No, I called you Patrick so you would listen to me," she said fiercely, trying hard not to cry.

"Oh. Like it – when you – call me – Patrick. No one – does, anymore."

No one called him by his name anymore. The tears began to escape at his words. How sad – how horribly, terribly lonely and sad that no one used his name. And yet he'd asked her to on more than one occasion.

But she hadn't because – why? She knew why, although she didn't really want to admit it to herself. It was because it was too close, too personal. It would make her vulnerable and that's not something she could ever be with Patrick Jane.

Because he was a man who'd buried his heart with his wife and daughter. He had chosen to never love again – to protect what was left of his broken heart and to live only for justice, never for love.

But she knew that it would be so easy to lose her own heart to this man. She knew herself – knew that she was a nurturer, a healer – a woman who needed to be needed. She was also a woman who needed tenderness and understanding – both of which Jane had, even if he tried to hide at least the tenderness.

No! She had to guard her heart. She had to remain the tough, sarcastic, hard woman that Jane knew. Because if she didn't she'd lose him completely. He would not stay around to face her unrequited love.

And now – now she once more needed to be tough, this time for his sake, not her own.

"Now come on," she told him after complaining of potential paperwork. "Move your butt and let's get out of here."

The next few moments were utter hell as she forced Jane to his feet. He was practically sobbing by the time he managed it – she'd never heard him in so much pain. She once more felt like she was going to be sick – sick from guilt and anguish.

But at least he was on his feet and moving. They had to get out of here and they were going to do it!

She kept forcing him on – saying things that later she'd think of as unforgivable. She even went so far as to call him a baby – a baby for hurting and wanting to rest. God, she was terrible.

But it was when he murmured his daughter's name, clearly beginning to hallucinate, that she truly lost it. The tears poured down her face and she wanted to take him into her arms and take away all his pain.

A moment later he snapped back into awareness of the present and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was just the pain of walking, that was all. When he actually joked about Rigsby her relief grew. They were going to make it. Patrick was going to make it.

The door was their first obstacle, but after a few minutes of fumbling and swaying Jane finally managed to open it.

He couldn't be that bad if he was still able to pick a lock – right? She had to keep telling herself he was going to be okay because the alternative was – something she refused to even acknowledge.

They were moving again – so slowly, too slowly – but at least they were getting away from the shack. She glanced back once, briefly, but had no idea where they were. The building looked as if it could have been used as a fishing shed in days gone by. Now it was probably completely abandoned.

They kept walking – or stumbling if she were being honest. She kept looking at Jane, who was ghost-white, his eyes unfocused and his breathing shallow and harsh. She frowned, again terrified that he wasn't going to make it. It was at that instant that he looked at her.

"You – mad?" he asked, sounding worried.

Mad? God – what had she become that he would think she was mad at him for being hurt. How did he even stand being around her?

"I'm not mad," she'd told him gently. "I just want to get out of here and get you to a hospital."

And there was the typical Jane answer. She almost laughed when he started to complain about hospitals. Again she felt her hope grow. He wouldn't be complaining if he were really dying – would he?

And then there was the fact that he told her about the pine tar. Even though she could see his mind begin to wander, he was still sharp enough to remember the clue that had given him the killer.

And wish to God it hadn't, she muttered to herself.

It was at that precise second that Jane tumbled to the ground, his legs giving out. She frantically dropped to her knees beside him and tried to get him to stand back up. No! He had to be okay. He was just complaining a second ago.

"An'jla," he heard him murmur.

Her heart broke once more for him as he called out his wife's name. He began to speak and it was clear he thought he was talking to Angela. He really was dying, Teresa suddenly realized.

She tried to wake him up – tried to get him to respond, but all he would do was talk to his wife. It was then that she knew what she had to do, but she wasn't sure she could ever forgive herself. If Jane survived he might not forgive her either.

But when he asked about Charlotte – worried about his daughter – she knew she had no choice. For now she had to become Angela Jane.

"She's safe Patrick," she said gently, truly believing that. Even if Jane didn't believe, she did. She knew that little Charlotte and her mother were safe and happy in God's hands. "She's happy. But you need to stand up – you need to go with Teresa."

She saw Jane frown. "Teresa?" he asked, confused by his wife's words.

"Yes, that's right," Lisbon answered, closing her eyes as the lies left her lips. "Please Ja – Patrick, please."

"Angela?" he asked a few heartbeats later.

She leaned down and stroked his cheek. "She's safe with Charlotte," she said, becoming herself once more. "But she wants you to get up."

That seemed to do it. She watched as Jane nodded and his eyes opened. He struggled, so weak and almost at the end of his rope, but eventually he made it to his feet.

They moved forward, step by step, breath by breath. Lisbon kept her eyes on the man she was practically carrying and knew they couldn't go much farther. She could see his life slowly seeping away.

She cried silently but kept on. She was not going to give up – not until there was no more hope. She would carry him if she had to. She would support him. She would be his wife if that's what he needed to survive. But she would always be there for this man.

A noise up ahead startled her and she looked up. It was only then that she realized she was at the bottom of a hill. There were trees dotted all over it, but there was also a clear path – and on that path was a running Rigsby.

She almost laughed at that – Running Rigsby – but she knew it was more relief and fear than humor. They were saved.

"Oh thank God!"

Soon things began to move at lightning speed and before she even had time to think they were being whisked to the hospital – lights and sirens blaring for everyone to see and hear.

When they arrived Jane was taken from her, even though she demanded to stay with him. She was ignored and a well-meaning nurse helped her into a cubicle, all the while she was calling to be with Jane.

She didn't remember anything after that. She figured she must have passed out on the bed and when she awoke she was in a hospital gown – her blood-stained and torn clothes nowhere to be found.

And Grace was sitting there, looking at her worriedly.

"Grace," she whispered. The next moment she'd been handed a glass of water with a straw and she took a long, cool draught of water. "Jane? How is he?"

"He's in surgery," Grace told her gently. "I haven't heard anything more than that."

"I have to go to him," Lisbon said, trying to sit up but falling back dizzily.

"You have a concussion Boss," Grace told her. "The doctor says you're supposed to rest."

"I can rest after I know what's happened to Jane." When Grace did nothing more than look sympathetic Lisbon shook her head in frustration. "Grace, you don't understand. He died on the way to the hospital. They had to inject his heart with medicine to get it started again.

Grace winced and nodded. "He lost a lot of blood Teresa. I don't think – I mean, the nurse said -"

"What? What did she say? Tell me."

"She said it didn't look good. You have to prepare yourself."

But of course one couldn't prepare oneself for that. How could you? What were you supposed to do, start thinking of all the steps you had to take when someone you lo – cared about died? Were you to start planning their funeral? She winced and stopped herself.

"He's not going to die," she said firmly. This time she went more slowly and carefully, but eventually she sat up, her feet hanging down the side of the bed. "We need to find out what's going on."

"You stay here," Grace sighed. "I'll be right back. Just rest Teresa."

She nodded – there was really nothing else she could do. But if the idiot died – she'd – she'd kill him.

She sobbed and jammed her fist into her mouth to stop any more pathetic sounds from escaping. He had to be okay. She couldn't survive without him.

It felt like forever, but it was probably only about 10 minutes before Grace came back. She looked at her fearfully.

"Well?"

"He's just out of surgery," Grace said quietly. "He survived but he's still in serious shape. The nurse said if he can make it through the next 24 hours he should be okay."

"Where is he?" Lisbon asked, determinedly, pushing herself out of the bed.

It spoke to how well Grace knew her that she didn't object. Instead she simply shook her head. He's in recovery but they'll be taking him to the Intensive Care Unit in about an hour – once he's stable. You can only be with him if you're family," Grace cautioned.

"Find me some pants," Teresa told her. "We're Jane's family and we're going to be there for him. I don't care if I have to chain myself to his bed!"

Grace's eyes glinted with a small spark of humor. Teresa would have been horrified to know that at that moment, Grace was thinking how much like Patrick she'd become.

"Okay – just wait here and I'll find something. Don't go anywhere!" she commanded sternly.

Teresa nodded, but swore that if her friend and subordinate wasn't back soon she'd prance out with the bare-assed hospital gown and demand to be taken to the ICU. As it was, Grace returned in less than five minutes carrying a set of scrubs.

"Here you go. You need help?"

"No. Where are Cho and Rigsby?"

"They're processing Ziegler and his bodyguard. They'll be by as soon as they're done."

Teresa nodded while she dressed. She'd barely pulled on her top when the curtain moved and a nurse stepped in.

"How are you feeling Miss Lisbon?"

"Mrs. Jane," Teresa said, a glance out of the corner of her eye at Grace. The young woman started, and her eyebrow went up, but she didn't say anything.

"Oh dear – I'm sorry, we didn't realize." She looked curiously at the red-headed young woman, who hadn't indicated this woman was married to the man they'd brought in at the same time.

"I use my maiden name at work. When can I see my husband?"

"Uh – I told this young lady that he'll be in the ICU in about," she looked at her watch, "30 minutes. Why don't you sit here and as soon as he's settled we'll come and get you."

So now, just over a half an hour later, here she was, sitting in the ICU, keeping watch over Patrick Jane. She looked at him and felt fear. He was pale – so pale his skin was translucent, with dark shadows smudged like charcoal under his eyes. He was also totally still, except for the slow lifting and dropping of his chest.

What was the hardest to look at were all the tubes and wires that pierced his poor, injured body. He had a breathing tube and IV's – things allowing life-saving substances to enter his body, and other tubes taking away the waste and poisons. It seemed such a violation and she knew that Jane would hate this to the bottom of his soul.

But all of these things were keeping him alive so for that reason she was thankful. She slowly reached out and took his limp, dry, hot hand in hers and held it tightly. She would sit here with him and hold on to him and make sure that he stayed alive. She was not going to let this man die.

She leaned forward until her mouth was close to his ear. "I'm here my love – and I'm not going to let you go."