So this is the first Red John fic I've ever written (or even considered writing). I had actually 'vowed' not to write one, but of course. Look what happens. sigh. Ah, the muses have a cruel irony. By the way, Dr. Joe-NH was from an episode of The Mentalist. It was actually Red John communicating with the team via instant message (if you rearrange Dr. Joe-NH, the letters become Red John). So Dr. Joe is Red John. Just wanted to clear that up.

We see a bit of a breakthrough in this chapter (a breakdown, too, actually). Not sure if I've succeeded in keeping them in character or even realistic, but this is a rather difficult story to write. There is a slight homage to Harry Potter. ; )

Thanks, Kathi-Ann! And to all the reviewers as well!

Chapter Three: Different

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The poor man with Lisbon's message didn't have any warning before he was surrounded by three agents and a consultant. Though he couldn't make out all of what they were saying (it was unbelievable just how loud and chaotic four adults speaking at once could be), he got the meaning loud and clear.

They wanted Lisbon's message and they wanted it now.

"Whoa, guys. Calm down." He took a step away from them. "I'm not supposed to give out personal messages."

Jane's intense concentration centered on him. "The only thing personal about that letter is the fact that it is from the man who attacked her."

"R—Red John?" He didn't ask how they knew that the letter was from the serial killer. He just silently handed it over, wondering a bit at the resentful gazes focused on the blond man. He started to back away, not so sure that he wanted to hear what the message said. He stopped mid-step from the austere countenance of one of the agents.

"We'll probably need to question you and your colleagues later today," Cho warned. The man nodded before fleeing down the hall, certain now that he didn't want to know anything connected to the killer known as Red John. Jane opened the paper and the team hovered around him, simultaneously wanting to crowd in to read it and feeling the need for space from him.

Their new boss was away for a few hours and, for a moment, Van Pelt allowed herself to pretend that it was a normal day. That Lisbon was out grabbing a coffee and the team was pursuing a lead for her. That Jane wasn't the ruthless person he had shown himself to be, but rather the damaged, quirky friend she had grown to think she understood. The consultant who could be cold and brutally honest—in a way that she had always thought covered the depth of his feelings, the way he cared about people.

The tense set in the shoulders of Rigsby and Cho popped her small daydream, bringing her back to reality. A reality where Jane didn't care. Not about 'people' in general and not about them. Suddenly she felt cold and tired.

Jane was staring at the paper, silent. Cho's frustration burst out in his usual monotone, but Jane knew him well. Knew that he was practically chomping at the bit. "Read it out loud, Jane."

Jane cleared his throat.

"Agent Lisbon:

Pleasure making your acquaintance. All this time leading the investigation on my case and yet I've heard so little about you. Of course, it must be hard to share any of the spotlight with the egotistical Patrick Jane. I'm sure by now you have discovered the man under the mask.

We're not so different, he and I.

Does that scare you?

I left you that little memento so that you could anticipate our next meeting and enjoy it as much as I will. Perhaps we'll play our own version of chess—if you aren't already a piece in another man's game. Strange how pawns never receive their due. Pity. They are usually the most fun. And rewarding.

Red John."

There was silence for a moment. There was no question in the team's minds—Red John was alluding to Lisbon being merely a pawn in Jane's grand game. As for Jane, he couldn't keep his eyes off the smiley scribbled on the typewritten letter. Were they alike? He and his family's killer?

He wondered if he should invest in a bottle of Tums. It seemed that lately his stomach had been feeling upset more and more. He wondered if stomach bile could be connected to a suppressed conscience in some sort of sick, karmic retribution.

Rigsby, surprising them all, gently took the letter from Jane's hands and put it in a plastic bag. His own gloved hands gingerly sealed the bag. He looked up. "Too many people have touched it already, but it's worth a try."

No one mentioned that there had never been any sort of evidence left by Red John through his communication. Red John was thorough. The letter, playing on Lisbon's distrust of her subordinate (they could only assume that Red John thought Lisbon was still on the case), had a threatening quality that set them on edge. Cho took the reins.

"Good idea, Rigsby. Bring it to forensics. Van Pelt, check the security footage for the front desk. Jane, you're with me." Jane nodded as the other two burst into action. Following Cho down the hallway to the front of the building, he analyzed the day's events. This new interest in Lisbon was intriguing. A part of Jane was indeed disturbed by the possible danger this represented for his former (the word felt bitter, even on his mind's tongue) boss. But another, more calculating part wondered how this changed things.

Because it did. Red John was changing his MO and changes meant a period of instability. Changes always rocked the boat. And Jane was prepared to do anything to keep it rocking, roiling in waves, so that he could find a chink in the sturdy wall separating him from Red John.

Questioning the people at the front (which included the man who had brought the message) did not bring forth any new information. The letter had been delivered by a passerby, a woman—someone likely recruited by Red John. Someone who had just run in, relayed both letter and recipient, adamant about the instructed department. One of the guys at the front desk mentioned the possibility that it was Red John himself, or in this case herself, but Jane knew in his gut that Red John would not place himself at risk to deliver a simple, taunting letter. Too much risk, not enough retribution. And Jane seriously doubted that Red John was a woman.

If he were wrong, then he would have to doubt all of the other cases that his hunches had solved. And there was no way that was happening.

Jane had started to zone out once more as Cho finished up the questioning when there was a flurry of action and kevlar-suited men rushed past them toward the door. He noticed the way Cho glanced at them and then did a double take, calling out in an urgent voice.

"Johnson! Where's the fire?"

One of the men skidded to a halt and answered quickly. "The bust in South Sac went haywire. Shots have been fired and there's been at least one explosion. Gotta run. Sorry, man."

And then he was gone, following his co-members out the door into the hot sun. Jane could sense that Cho wanted to run after them, to join them. The South Sac bust was where Lisbon was. In a detached way, Jane thought it would be ironic if Lisbon were to die at the hands of some druggies when she had held company with a sociopathic murderer and emerged from the situation breathing.

As if from the end of a long tunnel, Jane heard Cho questioning the desk clerks, searching for the radio channel that the Narcotics backup team was using. Lots of orders and crackling static, but a few words discernible here and there.

"...agent down..."

"...female, mid-thirties..."

The tunnel seemed to be getting longer and the static-covered voices quieter. The world smaller, shrinking in on Jane. Logically he knew that there were plenty of female agents around the age of thirty-five. Somehow, logic had been evading his grasp in the last few days. He thought back once more to the day the doctors, Sophie, had released him. He must have tricked them. This didn't feel right. Didn't feel normal.

He felt much he same as he had in the weeks following his discovery of his fragile and broken family, bodies covered in a delicate red.

He didn't even feel it when Cho guided him down the hall to his couch, calling his name.

The team had never seen Jane like this. Catatonic. It was then that they truly realized what victims' families must feel like to see a body so lifeless, so devoid of its normal personality. The man on the couch was Jane in features, but that was where it ended. There was nothing of the man they had known—ruthless or not—left. He just looked...empty. Empty and fragile. As if he were made of the most delicate wisps of silk that would crumble with as little as a breath brushing across the surface.

Van Pelt couldn't keep herself from hovering nearby, hands fluttering helplessly. She looked up to Cho "What..."

She trailed off, not quite knowing what to ask. Rigsby entered, back from forensics. One glance at the room and he turned bewildered eyes to Cho, who took a step back from the couch, from Jane.

"Lisbon's hit went south. She may have been injured or..." This time he trailed off. Van Pelt's fluttering hands went to her mouth as if to hold in a gasp that didn't escape. It was as if her breath had been stolen. This wasn't the way things were supposed to be. Rigsby turned away and just barely caught himself before slamming his fist into his desktop. Though he hadn't thought it possible to still worry about Jane, he was sure violence and noise wouldn't help the man at the moment.

He looked shattered. Or shatterable. Rigsby couldn't decide which fit better.

After a moment to collect themselves, they turned to Jane, finding him to be unresponsive still.

"What should we do?"

It seemed to be a question about Jane. A question about Lisbon. About their situation. About everything and nothing at once.

And still, with all the choices for the application of Van Pelt's question, none of them could think of an answer.

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Aside from some bumps and bruises, Lisbon was fine. She gingerly rotated her shoulder on the way into CBI headquarters, frowning at the tenderness in her muscles. It had been a long time since she was in on such an active bust. A bit different from tackling unruly suspects. And while she liked the members of her new team, she couldn't help but miss the team that had been as close to family as anyone had ever gotten with her.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a ruthless voice taunted her. How like her to have a 'family' that would put her in harm's way. So reminiscent of her past, of her father.

No, that wasn't fair. Jane was the only one who had done so. And, like her father, he didn't even realize that his actions were wrong. Was she destined to care about people who cared about her only until she got in the way of their desires?

Her body felt drained and she tried to convince herself that it was because of the workout she had received at the drug bust. She had almost succeeded when she was stopped by Cho's voice.

"Lisbon."

Though he had no inflection, as usual, she knew. She just knew that something was wrong. Feeling an uneasy knot in her stomach, she turned to face her most trusted confidant. Even Jane's betrayal could not take away the trust she felt for this man. She refused to doubt her judgment because of her former consultant.

"What's wrong, Cho?"

He hesitated and she knew it was about Jane. She cursed herself for feeling an instant worry even as she spoke. "What happened? Is he okay?"

She wanted to say: Is he alive? In custody of the CBI? What?

She wondered if he had gotten his revenge. She had pointedly stayed out of the gossip relating to the SCU and the Red John case. One slip and she was afraid she would fall prey to curiosity. To her own lack of judgment when it came to Jane. As they headed toward what used to be her domain, Cho filled her in. Told her about the letter, about the scare with her drug hit. About Jane's withdrawal and his lack of response to anyone. They were minutes away from calling the professionals. They hadn't yet decided if those professionals would be paramedics or psychiatrists.

Lisbon swallowed hard. Of the team, she was the only one who knew his history with psychiatrists—aside from his dislike of most of them. She didn't know if she could bear to see Jane locked in a sterile cell. No matter what he had done to her.

His personality had always seemed too big to confine. She supposed it was part of the reason she let him get away with so many shenanigans. Probably why so many people let him get away with those escapades—how does one constrict the wind? That is what he had often reminded her of. The wind: sometimes a blistering cold, sometimes hot. Gentle and soft in one moment, forceful and unforgiving in another.

But the sight that greeted her was none of those. That was not Jane on his couch. Couldn't be. Sighing, she signaled for the team to give them privacy. She knew that they wouldn't let anyone pass.

As she slowly approached him, she wondered why she was even bothering.

This man had incapacitated her, left her as helpless as a child on the premises of a building that likely hid a man who slaughtered women as if he were readying chicken for the grill. He had threatened her, betrayed her trust, and turned her life upside down.

In fact, she wasn't sure it had been right side up since she had met him. But she rather thought it would never find its way to rights. Just knowing him had messed up her equilibrium for life.

And, since it was a permanent condition, she figured that was why she was approaching the silent, empty figure in front of her with the intention of finding Jane inside of the shell. Much as she disliked him right now, much as she was angry with him, didn't trust him, she couldn't turn her back on him.

Damn it, she still considered him a friend. What the hell was wrong with her?

"Jane."

He didn't move, didn't even blink. She wondered if this was how he was during his breakdown after he had found his family. He seemed very much like someone in shock, but with no situation to warrant such a reaction. God, she wasn't a professional. She didn't know what to do with someone who was losing it or already had. She didn't know how to handle someone whose grasp on sanity was slipping.

She considered throwing in the towel and calling in said professionals, but then she remembered the quiet anguish in his voice when he confessed his shame at having a mental breakdown, at being hospitalized. She couldn't do that to him. Not without trying first to get through to him.

Her voice was louder and more forceful this time. "Jane."

There it was. He blinked, twitched a bit. Someone in there, he heard her. Slowly, as if with a wild animal, she reached out to hold his hand within hers. His skin was ice-cold against hers and she pulled his hand into her lap, rubbing it gently to circulate the blood. His fingers moved slightly, as if he wanted to hold onto her. She let go of his hand and stood, moving in front of him. She ran fingers through his blond hair, something she had briefly thought about every once in a while in the last year or so, but had never allowed herself to even come close to. She was not a touchy-feely person. This was probably the most she had ever touched Jane and she was sure it said something about her that she could only do it when he wasn't even conscious of her actions.

Firmly, she place a hand on each side of his face and directed his head up, locking her eyes with his. He blinked again and then suddenly the dam broke. He stood and began pacing, words pouring out of him in rapid succession. She caught only fragments.

"Why did he spare you? Why?"

Lisbon knew by the desperation in his voice that he was really asking: Why you and not my wife? Why not my child?

She wasn't offended. Grieving people often had these kinds of thoughts. And, honestly, it was valid. Why would Red John let her live and not a six year old child?

"You were down. Shot. A drug bust. A drug bust."

His hands were on her shoulders and he shook her slightly. Surprisingly, she didn't feel fear or mistrust. She didn't see the cold, calculating Jane standing in front of her. The one who had threatened her. All she saw was a broken man who had nothing to hold onto. And he was slipping down a dangerous slope.

She didn't know if she could pull him back up. She now wondered if this was how he always looked. If she had been so distracted by the man behind the curtain that she hadn't realized that the specter in front of her may very well be a window to his soul. Sure, the man behind the curtain was coolly ruthless, but the one in front of her was lost. Like a child who didn't know better so, with single-minded determination, he pursued the path in front of him—a path that led him to the one thing he couldn't let go of. His wife, his child, and the one responsible for their murder.

Except Lisbon knew that he wasn't sure if that one, the one responsible for his family's deaths, was him or Red John.

He really thought they were alike.

And maybe they were. Maybe everyone was a little like Red John. No one was perfect. Humans were flawed.

But it was not how people were similar, but rather how they were different that was significant.

And even if she couldn't quite explain what those differences were (not yet, anyway), she knew that they existed. Jane was different than Red John. The evidence was staring her in the face.

Sociopaths did not have breakdowns. They didn't feel enough to do so. They didn't feel. Period.

Jane felt.