Hopefully you haven't all died of old age while waiting for this chapter to be posted. I apologize for the delay.

I'd like to dedicate this one to my sister Beccy who despite her irrational hatred of Simon Baker, sat with me and allowed me to bounce some ideas off her when I was monumentally blocked. I doubt this chapter would have ever gotten finished without her. :)

Disclaimer and rating remain the same.

Incredibly, while Patrick Jane's personal version of the seventh circle of hell had been unfolding in Malibu, things back in Sacramento were progressing quite normally. Van Pelt leaned forward on the desk briefly, with her head in her hands. She'd now been staring at a computer screen for nearly three hours and mild eyestrain was beginning to take hold.

With Lisbon gone, there had been a sudden and unpleasant increase in the paperwork the team had to complete. Lacking their former boss's somewhat maniacal work ethic, Cho had opted to divvy up the extra work between the three of them rather than tackling it all himself.

Like the good hardworking rookie she was, Van Pelt had devoted almost the entire day to dealing with her share. Rigsby's portion had been stuffed into the top drawer of his desk; she doubted he'd even looked at it yet. As for Cho, once he'd finished with the mail, he'd begun steadily working his way through his stack, stopping a few times, twice to take phone calls and once when Hightower dropped by requesting a word in her office.

Van Pelt could tell that Cho was having a hard time dealing with his abrupt promotion to the head of Serious Crimes. The extra workload, along with Hightower's continued pressure on him to take up the position permanently was beginning to wear on his nerves. Of course he never said so, that wasn't his way, but sometimes she saw Rigsby looking over at him with a frown on his face, concerned for his closest friend.

It had been difficult to adjust to the new team dynamic that had been forced on them by Lisbon's departure. They'd endeavoured to carry on as normally and professionally as always, the way Lisbon would have wanted them to, and from a work standpoint, not a lot had changed. But on a personal level, the cracks were beginning to show. Cho had become even more withdrawn than ever, if that were possible, practically chained to his desk all day long and only speaking when spoken to. After the incident at Tovis', herself and Rigsby had reached an uncomfortable kind of truce, talking about neural topics, but reverting to awkward silences whenever the conversation threatened to take a more personal turn.

Worse still were the team's relations with their consultant. Rigsby and Cho, once Jane's frequent partners in crime, now seemed unwilling even to look at him, and if forced to talk to him, their voices took on an icy edge. Jane had committed the ultimate sin by betraying one of their own, and in the world of cops, disloyalty like that was unforgiveable. It seemed their friendship was well and truly at an end.

For her part, while not quite able to find in her heart to forgive Jane just yet, Van Pelt sometimes cast her eyes over to the couch and felt within herself just the tiniest twinge of sympathy. She saw in the consultant's air what the other two simply refused to see; Jane was missing Lisbon terribly. It made sense, over the years he had structured so much of his day around her that now she was gone, it was like he didn't know what to do with himself. He too had become quieter and retreated further into himself since she'd left, waiting for the others to ask for his point of view, instead of offering it willingly as he used to do. He'd also seemed to spend less time sleeping these days, and more time simply lying there, with his gaze fixed on the empty office.

In fact, that office seemed to draw everyone's gaze to it a lot more these days. When they arrived in the mornings it had become force of habit for them all to flick their eyes in that direction before they sat down, as if they could summon their leader back to it through sheer force of will. Once, the phone inside had rung and all four of their heads had snapped towards it so fast they might've given themselves whiplash. The phone had rung and rung, until Rigsby had gotten up and stormed into the office with blazing eyes. He'd snatched up the receiver and then slammed it back down so hard that the sound had made them all flinch. He determinedly avoided everyone's eyes as he returned to his desk. One by one, they had returned to their tasks.

She'd somehow known that Jane had been the last to look away.

Van Pelt looked over at the couch now, looking strangely bare without Jane lying on it. She wondered where he was. He'd said something about getting lunch, she remembered, but that had been hours ago and she hadn't seen him since. That was unlike him. But then again, he'd been doing a lot of out-of-character things lately.

She still couldn't quite believe how malicious he had been, gambling with her life and backing Lisbon into a corner, forcing her into making that impossible choice. She thought back to her conversation with Cho and Rigsby a few days prior. Her own words came back to her with a taunting clarity.

"Jane won't do anything else though, right? I mean, it's Lisbon we're talking about. I know he has his faults, but anyone can see he cares about her."

Looking back on it, she was embarrassed at how she could have been so naïve. She'd truly believed that Jane was not yet beyond redemption, and when he realized just how important he was to the team, and Lisbon in particular he'd stop this silly quest for revenge and start appreciating what he had.

What she had the most trouble understanding was his motivation. It was no secret that he felt more for Lisbon than what he was settling for with just a professional relationship. More than once, she'd caught him looking at their boss with the kind of yearning in his eyes that Rigsby had used to have when he looked at her. Lisbon of course had either not noticed or was ignoring it but the rest of the team, hell the rest of the building, knew that if Jane was ever going to love again, there was only one candidate in the running.

So why would he jeopardize that? Had he been so twisted by the horrors in his earlier life that he'd seen no choice but to sabotage his relationship with her to protect her? Or was it just what it seemed, unnecessary, meaningless cruelty for no other purpose than to cause her pain? Well if that was his aim, he had certainly succeeded, Van Pelt thought, remembering the way Lisbon's eyes had filled with tears. She'd never seen her cry before.

Another snippet from her conversation with the guys came back to her now.

"Whatever the problem is between Jane and Lisbon, they'll get through it. We see them do it every day. They'll drive each other up the wall, but in the end they always work it out."

Rigsby's voice chimed in.

"Sure. But what if this time they don't?"

He had asked the question, raised the possibility they were avoiding. Well, now they were finding out. This was the result of Jane and Lisbon not being able to work things out. Lisbon thrown out of the CBI, a miserable team and now, an AWOL consultant.

She considered saying something to the others, but in their present mood she thought they'd only be interested if Jane had gone to throw himself off a cliff. In that case, she figured that they'd just be disappointed not to be able to push him over it themselves.

Anyway, Jane had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. Besides, he was a grown man. He could take care of himself.

In his lifetime, Jane had experienced his fair share of defining moments. The moment he had discovered he could do things other kids couldn't, the day he'd finally stood up to his father and said he didn't want to con sick people anymore, the day he'd done that blasted talk show about Red John, the moment he'd opened the door to this very room to see what had happened to his family. The day he'd renounced his psychic skills and joined the CBI.

But this, this capped them all. Here he was, with an ugly choice to make that either way could only bring him sorrow.

Red John or Lisbon? Revenge for his wife or life for his new love? His future or his past? He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out Lisbon's bloodstained crucifix, holding to his heart in a clenched fist. He did something he had never done before. He prayed. He prayed for guidance. What was he supposed to do?

If there was ever a time he needed some divine intervention, it was now.

He waited for something to happen, for some kind of sign, but even as he waited nothing happened but for the low chuckle of the man who stood in the shadows against the wall.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to make himself believe. He asked the universe for a miracle. If not for himself, then for Lisbon. She deserved a miracle. She believed.

She believed that she could make the world a better place. She believed there was light at the end of the tunnel. She'd believed in him, when nobody else would. Surely that was enough to earn her some cosmic brownie points?

But when he opened his eyes, still nothing had changed. Red John was still laughing. Lisbon was still unconscious on the floor; the knife was still gleaming at his side.

He put the necklace back into his pocket.

He should've known. There was no escaping this nightmare. Not that easily, anyway.

"Wow," came the hated voice from the wall. "I think you're the first person to both find and abandon religion in under thirty seconds. Should I contact Guinness World Records?"

Jane did not deign to answer, but picked up the knife next to him, feeling the cold steel against his skin.

"Now just what are you going to do with that Patrick?" asked Red John, with interest. "Nothing stupid I hope."

Jane stood slowly up, drawing himself to his full height. As much as he wanted to rush at the man behind him and plunge the blade into his heart he knew he could not. Red John would be expecting an attack and would defend himself accordingly. But the idea was tempting.

No. To do so would be to sign his own death warrant, as well as Lisbon's. It would all be for nothing. Seven years of waiting and two weeks of trying to protect her would both go up in smoke, with nothing to show for it but another two dead bodies. All his efforts would go to waste.

He couldn't let that happen. But which one was he prepared to sacrifice for the sake of the other? He couldn't have both.

She stirred, moving her head a little. His heart ached as she gave a tiny moan.

He loved her so much.

The knife was dropped with a clatter.

"Are you sure about this Patrick?" came the voice again. "Pretty women are two a penny for a handsome man like you. Is she really so irreplaceable?"

Of course she was irreplaceable. She was unique, one of a kind. Special. Precious.

"Your devotion to her is admirable," Red John continued. "But you should think about what you're giving up here. The only thing you want out of life, and you're passing it up for what's probably just a brief infatuation."

Silence, as the killer's words slowly sunk in, no matter how hard Jane tried not to listen to them. It was like they were being drilled into his brain.

"We were talking about commitment before," said Red John. "Look at that ring on your left hand. It's a symbol of the promise you made. You promised you'd avenge their deaths. Think about them now."

He tried to block it out as his wife and daughter's faces flashed into his mind. He heard their voices. Remembered their names. He examined the gold band on his finger. He knew Red John was deliberately trying to make him doubt himself. And it was working.

"Commitment, Patrick," came the cold voice from the back wall again. "All those years ago, you made one. Now it's time to honour it." A pause. "Or don't you love them enough to finish what you started?"

That was the moment when Jane made his decision. He picked up the knife again. Holding it in a shaking hand, he made his way forward to where Lisbon lay. His legs felt like lead, his arms felt like stone, and his heart felt heavier than the both of them combined, as he once again knelt beside her.

"Good man," said Red John when he realized what was happening. "You made the right choice. But just so you don't get any funny ideas, take a look at me for a second."

Jane glanced over his shoulder and the other man lifted his shirt to reveal a gun in the waistband of his pants. "Borrowed it from dear Teresa's house," he said, weighing it experimentally in his hand. "She didn't seem to mind. Now then…" There was a click as the safety was taken off and he pointed the barrel at Jane. "I suggest you get to work."

Jane felt sick to the stomach. Was he actually going to do this? Could he really do something so monstrous to the woman he loved?

He blinked back the tears that were gathering in his eyes as he took in her sleeping form. Still so beautiful, despite the bumps and bruises. He let his eyes run over every inch of her, committing every little thing to memory. So many tiny features he loved, probably so many he didn't even know about yet hidden under her clothes that he would now never get to discover. He'd never thought it would come to this. It wasn't supposed to end this way.

He'd been pushing down his feelings for her for so long now that even at this pivotal moment he couldn't bring himself to say what he had wanted to say for months. There would be no more opportunities. It was now or never.

She chose that moment to let out a long, low sigh, and he knew he couldn't do it. He couldn't say the phrase out loud. Instead, he put his mouth close to her ear and whispered a single word.

"Goodbye."

The woman he adored, his saving grace, the only reason he had bothered to drag himself into work some days, the only person he treasured as much as his revenge.

He couldn't think of her that way anymore. She needed to become an object, the final step in the road to Red John. His life's purpose within his grasp, she was the final hurdle he had to clear. He couldn't miss his only chance.

Jane was struggling badly with the decision he'd made. It was written all over his face. To Red John, it was beautiful to watch. No amount of suffering could ever be enough for Patrick Jane who had been a ruthless pursuer and downright nuisance for so long now.

Watching him try to work up the guts to do away with his lady would be good sport. It would be a long process, but the three of them were quite alone here with plenty of time on their hands.

He kept the gun aimed at Jane but he had no intention of killing him. He must be allowed to live so that he might spend every day with the agony of knowing what he had done. He imagined the man being kept awake all night with nightmares and being plagued with guilt all day.

He may not know it yet, but Patrick Jane was in a no-win situation. Even if he did manage to kill Agent Lisbon, Red John was not about to let himself become Jane's next victim. He wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

Patrick Jane's heart was beating as loud as a war drum, blocking out any other sound. He felt literally beside himself, as though he were standing off to the side as somebody else brought the sharp blade of the knife to within an inch of her skin.

Somebody else hesitated as they tried to decide the best way to do it, as quickly as possible so that her suffering would be brief.

Somebody else brought the knife up to her throat, and then, reconsidering, positioned it over her heart.

The fingers of a stranger brushed against the side of her neck as he looked at her one last time. Silky smooth skin that should have first been experienced through the passionate touches and fiery kisses of a lover, rather than the shaking hands of a would-be killer.

The stranger held the knife over her, feeling the moment fast approaching even though he didn't want it to. He raised it higher, and mentally prepared himself to bring it down.

He might have been able to go through with it if she hadn't opened her eyes.

Jane suddenly felt his mind rocket back into his body as her eyelids fluttered and he saw those dazzling green eyes again. She looked up at him with confusion.

"Patrick," she croaked uncertainly.

He tried so hard not to look into the emerald orbs, knowing that if he did he could never complete his task. Eventually they pulled him in, like they'd been doing for years, and he saw something in them that he wasn't used to.

Fear.

Caused by him, the maniac holding the knife over her chest.

She, the great Teresa Lisbon was afraid of him, and what he might do. It was worse than her anger or even her silence. She swallowed, and then squeezed her eyes shut.

He could see that she truly believed this was the end.

It was like somebody then flipped a switch somewhere in his brain.

What the hell was he doing?

He couldn't kill her. Not even if it meant finally taking his revenge on Red John.

Her life was more important than Red John, more important than justice for his family, even more important than the cold satisfaction of revenge. He'd always thought that there was nothing he wouldn't do to settle the score with the man who'd taken away all the things that had made his life worth living.

He'd been wrong.

Once again, Teresa Lisbon had foiled his carefully laid plans simply by being herself.

She was everything to him now, and her life was a price he was not prepared to pay.

She lay utterly still, and waited for the pain. There was no point hoping that Jane would spare her, not when he'd been offered the chance to have what he had craved for so long.

She thought about the brief glimpse she'd had of him when she'd opened her eyes before. The man she saw was a far cry from the Jane she'd known for the past few years. He'd looked so pale he was almost skeletal. All the colour had been drained from his face; sweat was glistening on his brow. His hair matted, the blonde curls limp. Gone was the cheeky twinkle in the eye and the mischievous smile, in fact he'd looked gaunt, like he'd never smiled in his life.

She hoped he would find what he was looking for, otherwise her death, like her life, would turn out to be useless. For what had she achieved in her thirty-something years on this earth? She had thrown herself into a career that had come to nothing and as a result, had precious few friends outside the CBI. Her longest ever relationship had lasted only three months before she'd cut and run.

When she was younger, she'd imagined herself to be married by now, maybe with a child on the way. She'd never thought this was how she'd end up, dying in a darkened room at the hands of a slightly deranged colleague who she'd never been quite able to figure out how she felt about.

She thought of her brothers, her team, Minelli, the only people who might notice or care about her fate. She thought of her mother; she'd be joining her soon, wherever she was.

But the pain never came.

She took the chance to open her eyes. The hand holding the knife aloft was shaking so violently that the blade looked like a silver-coloured blur. His eyes were brimming with tears. Slowly, the hand was withdrawn, the deadly weapon taken away. She could hardly dare to believe it.

What had stopped him?

Footsteps approached from behind.

"I'm disappointed in you, Patrick. I always thought that you were a spineless piece of vermin, but I was so hoping you would prove me wrong."

The voice was laced with a thin note of disgust.

"How does it feel to know you're going to go to your grave being of no use to anybody? You are utterly worthless in every conceivable way. I hope you can live with that."

"I've been managing for the last seven years," Jane pointed out, bitterly.

The other man shrugged. "Well, if you're content with being a charlatan for the rest of your miserable life, then who am I to judge? But now, what are we to do with poor Teresa?"

"Leave her out of this," Jane snarled.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Patrick. She's seen my face; she's heard my voice. If I let her go, she'll run straight to the authorities. You see I don't much fancy going to jail. I've heard it's incredibly tiresome."

He heaved a deep sigh.

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to resort to this. She could be resting in peace by now, quickly and painlessly, if only you would be a man and do what was best for her. But as usual, you just had to have it your way and now she has to suffer for it. It's tragic really, but there's no other way."

With the gun still pointed at Jane, Red John came around and stood next to him, surveying her.

"It's going to be messy, I'm afraid," he said matter-of-factly. "And very slow. But I'm a showman after all, and it takes time to create a work of art. And you, Patrick, will watch every minute of it. I want you to witness the light leaving her eyes. It's one of the most breathtaking sights I've ever seen, the moment when someone makes the transition from life to death. It's almost magical," he concluded, reverently.

He smiled a broad, toothy smile.

"Shall we begin?"

Jane was aware of only two things; the knife was still in his hand and Red John was approaching Lisbon with hunger in his eyes. He had to do something. He couldn't let him get to her.

The next thing he knew, the knife had disappeared from his hand and was embedded in Red John's leg. Red John let out a howl of pain and the gun clattered to the floor. Jane took the opportunity to kick it away from him as Red John, wincing and gasping, sat on the floor to examine the wound.

Jane had to look away as Red John took hold of it and with the terrible sound of tearing flesh, pulled the knife out. The blade was coated with thick red blood from the tip all the way up to the handle like something out of a horror movie. The wound in his leg was quite large, blood flowing out in a steady stream, staining the jeans he wore.

"That was not one of your more intelligent ideas Patrick," he said, between grunts of pain. "Because now you've really pissed me off. And you're going to have to pay. You and your lady love over there."

Without warning, he lunged, sweeping Jane's legs out from under him. He tumbled to the floor and landed heavily on his side, his head striking a glancing blow against the hardwood floor. Momentarily dazed, Jane didn't have time to move away as he received a punch to the head.

He'd never been in a real fight before. Physical altercations had never been a particular strong suit of his; he'd always been good enough at spinning words to get himself out of trouble, or if that hadn't worked, the team had stepped in. But this time there was nobody but himself and his nemesis. It was just how he'd always wanted things to be. But he'd always imagined himself to be more in control of the situation.

Red John lined up another punch and Jane kicked out. There was a cracking sound and Red John shrank back, wincing. It appeared he had broken a few ribs. Jane became aware of something wet trickling down his neck and a sore spot at the back of his head. He supposed he'd split his head open when it had cracked against the floor.

With Jane temporarily distracted, Red John began dragging himself towards Lisbon. All he had to do was get close enough to hold that knife to her throat, and then Jane would stop resisting. He imagined Jane begging for mercy, saying he'd trade anything just to spare her life. Red John would let him plead for a while, just to enjoy the spectacle of watching him humiliate himself. And then he would kill her. Jane would be consumed by a murderous rage, and then the fun would truly begin.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jane saw the dark shape he knew to be Red John moving slowly across the floor. Ignoring his aching body, he struggled to his feet and lurched after him. He caught up when Red John was just inches away from her. In desperation, he threw himself forwards, crashing into Red John and pitching him sideways.

It wasn't as polished as the now legendary 'Lisbon takedown', but it did the job. The other man hit the floor hard, and the knife came loose from his hand. Jane pounced on it, snatching it up as it bounced on the floor. He put his full body weight on Red John's chest, taking care to apply extra pressure to his injured ribs.

Jane felt a cruel, savage pleasure as Red John grimaced. Finally, after all these years of waiting and worrying and guilt he had him right where he wanted him. He was in total control. Red John's life was in his hands, at the mercy of his whim. It was total, complete power.

Red John's face twisted into a sneer. "Go on," he snarled. "I dare you."

Once again, Jane raised the knife, aiming for the heart. If this were a movie, the dramatic music would be just reaching the crescendo now and he would have some kind of epic speech to make. But now the moment was here, he found he didn't need any kind of embellishment to make it special. So he said nothing, and braced himself.

"No."

A single, whispered word stayed his hand. It hadn't come from the man beneath him, but from somewhere behind. Lisbon.

"Please…don't," she said, so quietly he had to strain to hear her.

"Lisbon, I have to," he said, his voice shaking. "He deserves it."

"I know. But you…can't. You'll…go to jail." He could hear the exertion in her voice, as if every word was an effort.

"I know what'll happen, Lisbon. I'm prepared to accept the consequences."

"You…might be…I'm not. Don't do it…please. For me."

Red John snickered. "I hate to interrupt this little lover's tiff, but can you please hurry up and lose your nerve already? I've got things to do today, places to go, pretty brunette state agents to kill…" He grinned at Jane, who drew in a sharp breath.

"I'm sorry Lisbon," he said.

With one, fluid motion he brought the knife down.

There was a sudden explosion of sound and in an instant Jane was spattered with blood.

Red John was dead.

Just like that. One moment here, the next moment gone.

But he hadn't even stabbed him yet.

"No!" Jane roared. "No!"

He shook Red John, punched him in the side of the head, anything to make him stop playing dead. It couldn't be true. He couldn't have gotten this far to have it taken away from him now.

But the other man did not stir. His eyes were open, but frozen and cold. Blood everywhere. Dead.

The tears sprung forth as he finally accepted the truth. He stood up in a blaze of fury and kicked at the body time and time again, as if it could somehow make up for the injustice of it all.

So close. He'd been so close. And now it was over. Forever.

He clenched his fists together and howled, an unearthly sound that echoed around the empty house.

How had this happened?

He swung around and instantly received his answer.

Lisbon, supporting herself painfully on one arm, the other hand clasped around the gun. The same gun Red John had dropped and he had kicked away. She was no longer on the mattress; it appeared she'd somehow managed to find the strength to crawl a few inches to reach it.

She'd killed him.

"I'm…sorry," she breathed. "I couldn't…let you do it."

Even as he looked at her, he felt the anger intensify. The world had turned red. For now, he didn't see the woman he loved. He didn't even see someone he recognised. He only saw the person that had cheated him of his revenge.

Blinded by fury, injustice and a white-hot hatred, he advanced on her, a man possessed. Without realizing what he was doing, he plunged the knife into her abdomen.

Her scream was worse than he ever could have imagined. It seemed to curdle his blood and send an icy chill down his spine at the same time. His nightmares had been nothing compared to the real thing. Somehow, the sound snapped him back to himself.

Horror-struck, he threw the knife aside as once again, blood began to stain the floor. There was a gurgling sound and little bubbles of blood appeared at the side of her mouth.

What had he done? One moment. One moment of madness and it had been enough to do so much.

He'd stabbed her. The woman who'd taught him what it was like to love again. His angel. His saviour. And he had tried to kill her.

If he'd ever needed more evidence that he wasn't human anymore and just a demon who hadn't yet made it to hell, this was it.

He pulled off his suit jacket, balled it up, and held it against her wound. He had to get her some help. But how? He wasn't strong enough to carry her and if she didn't get to a hospital soon, he would lose her for good.

There was only one chance. As quickly as he could, he hurried back to Red John's body. He felt in the pockets until he found what he was looking for. A cell phone. He rushed back to her, resuming the pressure on her stomach with one hand, and frantically dialling with the other.

"911," came the smooth voice over the line. "What is the nature of your emergency?"

"I need an ambulance," he said as quickly as he could. "There's a woman…she's been stabbed…she's losing a lot of blood."

"I need you to remain calm sir-"

"She doesn't have time for this crap!" he bellowed at the operator. "You've got to get here right now!" He shouted the address at her and then hung up the phone. He threw at the wall and it fell apart at the impact.

She was still breathing, but very weakly. Her eyes were open, but kept slipping closed at regular intervals, for a little bit longer each time. The blood was beginning to soak through his jacket now, so he pressed still harder.

"Come on Lisbon, you have to stay with me," he whispered. "You're stronger than this."

Her eyes closed again. "No, no, no," he begged her. "I'm so sorry I hurt you. This is all my fault. Please, open your eyes."

Her eyes opened and he saw the tiniest flash of green before they closed again.

"Oh no you don't," he said, almost hysterically. "You don't get to quit on me like this. You haven't even threatened to shoot me for getting you fired yet, and after this, you definitely owe me a serious ass-kicking. You know you've been wanting to do that for ages…"

Eyes opened.

He chuckled a tiny bit. "If that didn't wake you up nothing would."

Eyes closed.

"OK, OK I get it, bad joke. But come on, you're Teresa Lisbon and you don't give up on anything. You never back down. You're a fighter, and you're not going to let something like this beat you. "

The eyes stayed closed.

Adam Bonham and Kirsty Walker had been on their fair share of strange callouts in the 14 years of paramedic experience they had between them. But the job they were assigned in Malibu that day was a real doozy.

To the end of their days, neither of them would ever forget that scene. A smiley face of blood on the wall. The dead body of a man with a bullet-hole in his head. Pools of blood all over the place, some big some small. Another man, sobbing, and spattered with blood from head to foot crouching over a dark-haired woman bleeding profusely from the stomach and with her fingers curled around a gun.

He looked up when he heard their footsteps outside the door. He had the haunted look of a man who had seen and done things that most people wouldn't encounter in their most horrific nightmares. He said only two words to them as they approached.

"Help her."

She was in a bad way, but she was alive. When Kirsty and Adam carefully lifted the makeshift dressing they saw the gaping wound, still spewing blood. It was quite amazing in a way that she was still breathing. They'd seen people die of wounds far less extensive than this.

With difficulty, they got her on a stretcher and carried her down the stairs to the waiting ambulance. The man got up and followed them, not even sparing a glance to the body on the floor. He kept his eyes on her the whole way.

Once they had her settled in the back of the ambulance, Adam hurried around to the driver's seat and without waiting for invitation, the man hopped into the back with Kirsty. The vehicle took off.

In her years of this work, Kirsty had ridden along with many bereaved relatives of patients but this man was different from all the rest. Rather than clinging to the dark-haired woman's hand, or talking to her, or crying, or asking Kirsty how far it was to the hospital, he sat as still as a statue, and stared. He didn't take his eyes from the woman for a moment. He wasn't in such great shape himself, Kirsty noticed, with a black eye, a ripped shirt and a gash at the back of his head that she'd noticed earlier.

"Do you want me to look you over?" she asked.

He shook his head, his gaze set.

"It'll only take a minute, and there's nothing more I can do for her until we get to the hospital."

He shook his head again.

The ambulance jolted as they went around a corner and the patient moaned.

"What happened?" asked Kirsty. "Who did this to her?"

For the first time, the man's eyes met hers.

"I did."

Jane watched as the gurney was wheeled through the doors towards the operating rooms. People leaped out of the way as the doctors rushed her into emergency surgery.

"Female, mid-thirties," Jane heard one of them say as they blew past him. "Single stab wound to the lower abdomen, currently unconscious."

The doors swung shut behind them.

Jane suddenly felt he needed to sit, and staggered over to one of the chairs near the reception desk. All there was to do now was wait. And hope.

A young woman in a nurse's uniform with red frizzy hair came over to where he sat.

"Sir? Are you all right?"

He just stared at her.

"There's a telephone at the desk," she said. "Is there anyone you need to call?"

He shook his head.

"All right," she said gently, and went to walk away.

And then he remembered.

"Miss?" he called after her and she turned.

"Yes?"

"Actually, there is a call I need to make," he said.

She smiled at him. "Right this way."

He punched in the number, shaking hand holding the earpiece. There was blood on his hands he noticed. Her blood. The thought made him want to throw up.

"Cho?" he said when the call connected. "It's Jane."

"Jane? Where the hell are you?" Cho demanded to know.

"I'm at the hospital," said Jane. "You guys need to get here right away."

"The hospital?"

"It's not me," he paused. "It's Lisbon."

"Lisbon? What about her?"

"She's hurt, Cho. Badly."

"We'll be right there."

Jane was glad that Cho had not asked for more details, for how could he ever explain everything to him over the phone?

He returned to his chair. And he waited.

You guys probably think I contradicted myself when I made Jane hurt her, but I honestly think in a situation like that he would probably go a little crazy and if she was in the way, he'd be just as likely to attack her as anyone else. But I'll understand if you disagree.