Patrick was bored. And a bored Patrick Jane was a dangerous thing. He knew he could be a bastard when he got to this state – but it was that or lie there remembering and that was much too painful.

He looked around the room, wishing for company or even a book – something to keep his mind occupied. Instead he was here, all alone, with nothing to look forward to except another disgusting hospital meal.

He knew that it was actually a good thing he was bored. It meant he was getting better. Oh, he still got the odd headache, and his ribs and side hurt like the devil, but at least now he could stay awake for a reasonable length of time, and his mind was no longer foggy and confused.

The doctors (quacks!) wanted him to stay a few more days. Personally he thought it was stupid – he could recuperate much better at home. But Teresa told him he had no choice and refused to bring him any clothes. And he had to admit that he wasn't really up to making the escape by himself anyway. Even getting out of bed and walking three feet to the chair exhausted him.

The main problem, as far as he was concerned, was his ribs. They made moving almost impossible. The knife wounds didn't help either, although it was easier to be careful with them. No, he was stuck here for the next few days, but that didn't mean he had to take it gracefully. Nope! He would make the medical staff as miserable as he was. That would show them!

Of course it would also mean a lecture from Teresa! He grinned just thinking about it. He enjoyed seeing Teresa get irritated with him. There was something terribly cute about a ticked of Teresa Lisbon. He refused to analyze why her irritation pleased him – refusing to acknowledge it showed that she cared.

He just had to know just how far he could go with her. He loved driving her crazy – but hated when she was truly angry at him. So he had to play it very carefully. Just thinking about that took away some of the boredom.

A few minutes later, however, it returned. He sighed and looked around the room again. There had to be something for him to do.

At just that moment he glanced down and noticed the cupboard in his night table. He wondered briefly what was in there. "Probably a bed pan," he murmured. He thought for a few seconds and then grinned again. He could probably think of a funny magic trick using a bedpan. He didn't have a rabbit, but there had to be something he could make appear.

Now he just had to get the damn thing. With a "feeling sorry for himself" groan, he managed to put his feet over the side of the bed. He had to hang on tightly to his ribs and it took a while before he felt up to moving the next few inches. Eventually he was standing beside his bed, his side throbbing and burning. He just had to lean over a little bit – there – and open the cupboard.

Sigh! There was no bedpan. So much for that idea. But there was something – a paper bag. He reached out for it – slowly, carefully. He grimaced when his stitches pulled, but managed to snag the paper bag and lift it out of the cupboard.

It took longer than he'd thought to get back into bed, and he had to spend a few minutes allowing the pain to subside. Damn criminals! He really didn't like getting hurt. He and physical pain didn't do well together.

Curiosity finally made him move and open the paper bag. He was pretty sure that Lisbon must have left something for him. Maybe it was his clothes? Excited at the possibility of making his escape wearing actual pants, it took him a moment to identify what he was seeing.

A doll? What in the world? He lifted it out of the bag, and stared at it, not quite sure what it was for.

It hit him after a few seconds. Charlotte's doll! What the hell was it doing here? Who would have played such a macabre joke as to leave it with him?

He dropped it onto his lap, and continued to stare at it. His face had drained of color, and his hands were shaking – but still he stared at the doll.

He'd wondered what had happened to it. Charlotte always carried it with her and he'd gone crazy trying to find it after she was dead. In the end he'd wondered if Red John had carried it away as a souvenir.

That thought made him freeze. What if Red John had taken it –

"Jane?"

His head slowly lifted until he saw Lisbon standing in the doorway, a concerned look on her face.

"Are you okay?" she asked, taking a sudden step forward. "What is it? What's wrong?"

At her question his head bent and he regarded the doll, which still sat on his lap. He opened his mouth to speak, but wasn't sure what to say. Could it have been Red John?

"Oh Jane, I'm sorry," Teresa interrupted his thoughts. When he looked back up she was standing right by his bed. "I didn't mean for you to see that – not until you were feeling better."

He swallowed. "Where - ?"

"Where did it come from? Don't you remember?"

He slowly shook his head.

"We found you with it on the beach. You were holding onto it."

His brows crinkled in a frown. "I had it?"

"Yes. We don't know where it came from. We thought that maybe you had grabbed it from the house and carried it with you to the beach."

Jane continued to frown, trying desperately to remember how he had come across the doll. Something flashed into his mind – the ocean – Charlotte playing with him in a dark hole? No – a cave – their cave. He closed his eyes, the memories making him feel weak.

"It was in the cave," he whispered.

Teresa reached out and put her hand over his. He grasped it and squeezed, needing something to tether him to the now, before he drowned in the memories. "Why was it in the cave?" she asked carefully.

"It – it was our secret place," he told her, breathing quickly. He then looked down at the doll and frowned. "But this – this can't be it. It looks – it's different."

She grimaced slightly. "When the ambulance came for you, I gave the doll to Grace to look after. We realized that – uh that it was your daughter's. She felt badly that it had gotten dirty and she had it cleaned up." She watched him closely, but all he did was stare down at the doll. She quickly continued. "She kept all the original things – and she said she'll change it back if you want. Don't be mad at her Jane," she finally said, worried at his continued silence. "She did it because she thought it would make you feel better."

At that he finally lifted his head. "I'm not mad," he told her. "I just – I couldn't find her," he gently lifted the doll. "I looked everywhere. All I could think was that Charlotte would cry without her doll. I didn't – I didn't want to bury her without it."

"Oh God Jane," Teresa whispered, lifting his hand to her face. "I'm so sorry."

After a few seconds he pulled his hand away from hers and carefully moved so that he was lying down. He still held the doll in one hand, and when he lay down he brought it up so that it was beside him. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep – the frown between his brows giving evidence to the fact that he was still fully aware.

"I miss her so much," he whispered, his voice so low that Teresa almost didn't hear him.

She reached out and gently put her hand on Jane's shoulder. This time his hand reached up and covered hers. They stayed like that for a long time until finally she saw him begin to fade. Eventually he was asleep, and his hand fell from hers.

She continued to watch over him, until she too grew tired. With a sigh she tucked him under the blankets, making sure not to move the doll. She headed towards the door.

"May God watch over you Patrick," she said softly. She then turned and left – the need for sleep overtaking her desire to stay and watch over her friend.

Poor Jane –poor, poor Jane. She shook her head and left him all alone, with only Charlotte's doll to keep him company.