WARNING! This is a graphic and bloody chapter. I tried to keep it as non-descriptive as possible, but the description was necessary at one point. There is a set of bolded asterisks (****) at the beginning of the paragraph that I have deemed the worst.

AN: Quickest update in months! I know! I have time now.

Thanks to holmesy, Guest, and MartyMac for reviewing the last chapter and especially MartyMac for reviewing practically the whole thing! Every review helps.

This chapter picks up exactly where the last one left off. Jane doesn't take the revelation that he and Lisbon aren't engaged too well.

I promise I'm not actually as sadistic as this story makes me out, usually I am much kinder, but my stories take shape based on the characters within them, and in dealing with a serial killer, it will tend to be darker.

It is my goal to have Jane out of the hospital as quickly as possible, as in within the next two chapters, and on the road to recovery. This is it for intense physical Jane pain for many chapters.

As always, Read and Review!

"Oh." The word escaped him in a quiet rush of air. He felt like he had been punched in the chest. It hurt too much to breath and he almost felt like crying.

Then it started. He could feel the world he thought he had created for himself begin to slip away- no, it didn't slip, it shattered, falling apart, dragging him with it as it spiralled down into the place he had just promised Lisbon he would not go.

That thought, simple as it was, stopped his fall, but he still spun, suspended in his loss.

Not that he had ever had it to begin with, his supposed life with Lisbon, but the pain was still there, especially now since Red John had promised to kill her.

That stopped the spinning. He looked up at her, forcing his eyes to refocus. He had to protect her. He had failed at protecting before, but he would not now. Not for her. He could not see her broken again.

He pushed away the love he felt for her, locked it back up in the Navy Pier in his mind. He began to categorize his thoughts, his priorities. Revenge would no longer be first. Protecting her was all that would matter. He would take another knife in his body, a bullet, a car, a bomb for her.

He could feel his face hardening, as the lover and father that he really was crept back toward the dark place it had hidden for so long.

"NO!"

He jumped as hands tightened around his wrists, jerking him away from his preparations.

Her eyes were furious, flashing with the green fire that so often caused suspects to confess without a second's hesitation.

"Don't do that. I'm sorry. I know you hurt. But don't do that."

He looked down, feeling unsure, and somehow scared.

"You promised you wouldn't hurt me. I'm not blackmailing you, but when you turn yourself off like that, when you pull on that- that mask you use, it hurts. It feels like you don't trust me, or you don't think I would be able to handle someth-"

"I'm trying to protect you."

The fire faded from her eyes and her grip on his wrists loosened.

"From what?" she asked softly.

"From him. From myself."

Her thumbs stroked along the soft skin on the inside of his forearms. "Why?"

"He's going to kill you because I love you." His voice was small and distraught and when he looked up at Lisbon she could see the terror laying behind his grey-blue-green eyes.

"The nurse told me. She said we were engaged. I must have said something while I was in the coma. She told R-"

"I told them we were engaged. I did this. I knew what I was getting myself into when I said it. I knew what would happen if he found out."

It was his turn to ask, "Why?"

"It was my fault you went to Malibu, and there was no way I was leaving you alone in the hospital. Every time I do something goes wrong with you." She said the last with a sad smile. "It was the only way they would let me ride in the ambulance, and stay here with you past visiting hours."

He nodded quietly.

Trace came into the room pushing a cart loaded with covered dishes and a pitcher of water. She set the dishes on the rolling table and pushed it toward the bed. Glancing up, and sensing the obvious tension between them, she said, "There's chicken and vegetable broth, red jello, and lightly buttered toast. I've also brought you some water. If you need anything more, push the call nurse button." She retreated quickly and shut the door.

Lisbon scooted off the bed, pulled the table over Jane's lap, and removed the covers. He picked up the silverware and began to eat in silence.

Seeing that he was not going to speak until he was finished eating, she settled into a chair and closed her eyes.

Jane set down the spoon and pushed away the jello. He couldn't eat anything that color just yet. Maybe never again. The jollity with which the... food... moved as he pushed it away seemed to be mocking him.

Lisbon seemed to be dozing, her face soft and innocent in her repose. There had to be something between them. He tried to remember while watching her, what it could have been, if she had ever said anything. When he had kissed her when she brought him back, when she had kissed him back…. The look in her eyes, her breathing afterwards…

He was certain she loved him, but he couldn't remember her ever telling him so. And he wouldn't assume so unless she told him.

There had been an edge to her voice, a slight tilting to the tone she used to apologize. He had done something to her recently, hurt her somehow to make her not necessarily entirely feel sorry for him.

What had he done?

Try as he might to rack his brain to answer the question, he couldn't recall it. The events of the past 30 hours were nearly all sharp in his mind, with the exception of the half hour around his first blood transfusion. He shot the jello a death glare, and continued thinking.

What had happened after Lisbon woke him up to fly to Malibu until he had passed out was also surprisingly clear, but he could barely remember anything for maybe a day or two before that. That's when it had happened. That's when he had hurt her. But he couldn't remember it.

He wanted to know what he had done to her, but he was afraid of what cruelty he had inflicted on her.

He pushed the table away, giving the jello one last dark look and leaned forward to call her name. A flash of pain across his chest and side set lights dancing behind his eyes. He must have moved too fast, overridden the dilaudid.

It dissipated faintly as he stilled and returned as he inhaled. Smaller breaths, then. He could do that.

"Teresa," he called softly, then stopped. Could he still call her Teresa? Now that they weren't… Now that he knew they had never been engaged?

Yes. He would. It didn't really matter. They weren't at the office. And he wanted to. He was stubborn that way.

"Teresa." She stirred and looked up at him, blinking owlishly.

"Teresa, I did something, I did- said something in those two days before we got the case, didn't I? Something to do with him. I hurt you didn't I?"

She nodded, her eyes glassing with tears for the remembered pain.

He hung his head, having to grit his teeth as the pain shifted across his chest.

"What did I do?" he mumbled.

"You-" Her voice was gummy, whether from tears or slumber he didn't know. She cleared her throat. "You said you had another lead, the first major one since the list failed to pan out. You told me you had to go back to Vegas, you didn't know how long you would be. I told you that if you left you couldn't come back. And then, then you smiled and said it might be better that way. Then you just walked back up to your attic and locked yourself in."

There were tears running freely down her face.

He remembered suddenly, the whole violent exchange. He had been trying to protect her from Red John, in his mind the two of them had grown dangerously close. He had felt the best way to protect her was to drive her away. If he couldn't stop the way he felt, he could certainly make sure she didn't reciprocate. He had used his biggest betrayal of her to hurt her on purpose.

In trying to protect her, he hurt her.

He had always known when he was hurting her. It always tortured him.

It felt worse now, like someone grinding salt into a wound instead of just cutting him.

He regretted it. He felt guilty beyond belief. For almost eight years he had hurt her to protect her and he had failed. He had been weak and failed.

He drew in a ragged sob and whimpered, the guilt burning as much as his wounds suddenly did.

"I'm -ah s-ah so so-orry."

She looked up at him, hearing both the pain and honesty in his voice.

"I know y-"

He gave a strangled cry and convulsed backwards into the bed as a stabbing sensation burned deep into his side.

"Patrick!"

He clung to the sound of his given name on her tongue as another wave of pain wracked his body.

"Patrick, your side, can you feel it?" She sounded afraid, but he could not force his muscles move to look at her.

"All... all," he groaned as he curled toward his side.

"All of them?"

"Ye- ahhHH!" His agreement trailed off in a wail of pain.

Lisbon practically flew to the wall where the call nurse button was and slammed her palm against it. A voice he could not hear over his own sounds of pain said something.

"It's been four and a half hours since you gave him the pain killer!"

Lisbon paused to listen to the voice.

"Just get in here and give it to him!"

She was back at his side, smoothing the hair from his forehead.

"Only a minute, Patrick. It will only be a minute."

His agonized eyes, now more grey than anything, fixed firmly on hers begging her to help him. There wasn't much she could do, but she slipped her hand into his uninjured one and let him hold on to it.

A young man came into the room looking absolutely terrified. Despite this, he unclipped the used bag of dilaudid, flushed the line with saline, and attached a new bag before scurrying from the room.

Jane's convulsions continued for a few minutes before the medication began working. When it did, he sagged back into the pillows, his hand, which had been crushing Lisbon's, falling slack.

He panted, tears glistening in his eyes, suddenly exhausted.

She leaned forward and ever so gently, wiped the tears from his face. Straightening she asked, "I need to ask Dr. Stillman a question. I know you don't like him, but is it all right if he comes back in here?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

Lisbon pulled her phone from her pocket and pressed a button. She held the phone up to her ear and waited.

"Hello? Trace? Can you get a hold of your husband for me?... Oh! Yes, this is Agent Lisbon…. There are orders for dilaudid every four hours. The nurse at the station said they were trying to prevent him from becoming addicted, so they were delaying the administration of the dose…. Yes…. Okay."

She snapped the phone shut and turned to him. "Dr. Stillman is going to berate the nurses and then check on your stitches. He wants to be sure you are okay."

Jane nodded feeling apathetic toward the suffering that the nurses would soon feel.

She finger combed the hair back from his forehead again and looked at him inquisitively. He realized just how bad he must look as he gaze softened to pity.

"It should only be a few minutes, but you should rest, close your eyes. I'll wake you when he gets here, if he needs you awake."

He nodded again, the exhaustion from his pain making him all too willing to comply. He tightened his grip on her hand and closed his eyes, slipping easily into quiet unconsciousness.

"Will he be okay?"

"He should be." The voices slipped softly to him through the darkness of his sleep. It was almost pleasant, bringing back faint memories of waking up to his parents' talking in the pre-dawn.

"You were right in your assumption," continued the second voice, "Pain of the scale he likely experienced has exhausted him. But he is sleeping very lightly. He could wake up now or he could keep sleeping for the next several hours. It's really up to him."

"And his stitches?"

"He probably strained some of them rather badly, but there is no blood on the tape, so he did not tear any open. You should watch him, though, if he starts displaying any abnormal discomfort, call me."

"What about the nurses?"

"The two responsible have been put on two-day suspension. They will be under review."

"Will they be fired? I know they were trying to do them properly and conscientiously, and even though he's hurt, I don't want them to lose their jobs."

He smiled tiredly and squeezed her hand softly as he slid back to sleep. That was his Teresa.

He wrinkled his nose and tried to clear an unwelcome flavor from his mouth, it was saline and chemical. Shifting, he fell asleep again.

His wrists were tied down again. Straining against them, he realized they were handcuffs, not cords.

"Hello, Patrick." The cold, tinny voice set his heart thundering in his chest. He turned his head to see a rail-thin, extremely tall man in a black suit with arms that trailed beyond his knees. "How are you?"

He forced his eyes to the man's face and nearly screamed. There was no face. Instead, painted across the smooth and featureless snow white skin that should have had eyes, ears, nose, and mouth was the still-wet red smile that had greeted him in his bedroom.

"Silent today, are you?"

The horrible mouth did not move, nor did the eyes, but he knew that Red John was studying him.

"Why?"

He was shaking now in his terror, unable to move with that… thing… staring at him.

"You must be over-joyed! You are finally the most prolific bastard I have ever met. And you started so young, too. Only ten weren't you? You were thirsty and instead of getting water for yourself, you asked your dear, beautiful mother to get it for you, and she died! It doesn't matter what your father told you, it really was your fault. And what about La and little Charlie? I wouldn't have touched them, I would have stayed far away from you and the Stillmans after I was done with Emma. But sadly for you, gladly for me, you were such the attention whore, couldn't keep yourself out of the limelight. When your network found out that they could have you talk about me you jumped for it. You knew my profile. The attacks were my convenience and through unseeming provocation. That wasn't the most subtle thing you could have ever done, was it?

"And now look what you've done!" Red John's voice was pure glee. "You've thrown another unsuspecting pawn into our game!"

One long arm gestured languidly toward the wall facing his bed. Teresa was there, struggling against the same kinds of bindings, a gag in her mouth, suspended in a bed that hung at angle so he had a clear view of her entire naked body. She stared at him, silently begging him to save her.

"Beautiful Teresa," crooned Red John, turning toward her. His words came out in a sick caress as his bony hands stroked her body, "You put too much trust into a murderer like this one. How could he have ever done anything to deserve a saint like you? How could you ever keep loving him as he hurt you, betrayed you like he has? You would have had a long full life if you hadn't ever cared for him. You were my next target the minute you showed compassion for him. I was waiting, just waiting for that little provocation. Engaged! Such a beautiful lie. But it is enough for me. I can see how, even though it's not yours, this will break you like a twig."

**** In a single step, Red John was at his side, driving the massive hunting knife through his body. Blood spurted from Lisbon's belly, drawing a shriek from her. Red John tore the knife towards himself in Jane's body, using the skinning hook to shred a gash across his stomach. The matching wound appeared in her body as she screamed again, and torn organs fell through the opening, splattering from her against the ground, trailing the long ropes of her intestines.

Jane couldn't move, couldn't even cry out, transfixed as he was by those fading green eyes, blaming him for everything he had ever done, hating him. She turned her head away from his gaze, repudiating him.

He was standing over her, the knife in his hand. He could smell the sweet-iron blood scent of Red John standing behind him, directing his actions, forcing him to move.

"Into her body, just below the sternum."

His arms moved of their own accord, lifting the dripping knife high over her prone form. She still refused to acknowledge his presence. He strained against the movement, trying to stall his arms, get them to stop.

"NO!"

The scream was his own this time as he drove the knife into her again and again, making her shriek in pain.

"Cut her throat."

"No…" he whimpered, as one hand gripped the hair on the back of her head, exposing her throat. "STOP!" he cried as his other hand swept the knife down through her throat, turning another scream into a rasping gurgle.

"And finally, once into her heart."

Her eyes snapped to him. "I will never forgive you, never love you now," she gurgled.

His hands lifted, directly over her heart, untrembling, even though the rest of his body felt like it was going to shake apart.

They plunged down, stripping a howl of pain and guilt and defiance from the very center of his soul.

"Patrick!"

Lisbon flew to her feet at the sound of a man screaming. She swung around, fully awake, and saw Jane, flailing wildly in his sheets, his face distorted in terror, trapped in a nightmare by his exhaustion. He made another sound and she was at his side, trying to grab his wrists, to pin his torso down. One of his arms struck her in the face, throwing her back from the bed, and she jammed her wrist, catching herself in the fall. He screamed again, the sound tearing her heart out.

Diving back to the bed, she shook his shoulders, shouting his name as loud as she could. He still did not rouse, but instead fought harder. In the darkness, she could see red appearing along one of the lines of tape on his torso. She had to stop his movement. Climbing up onto the edge of the bed, she lay down on him, spreading her weight across his body, pinning him down as a terrible inhuman sound ripped from his convulsing body. She called his name again.

He blinked, trembling up at Lisbon. She was alive, her green eyes bright with fright and concern for him. Her body, whole and un-bloodied, was on top of his, pinning him down. He could feel tears running across his cheeks, though whether hers or his he could not tell.

He wrapped his arms around her and began to sob, saying over and over again, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Shhh…" she soothed quietly, "Shhh… I'm here Patrick. I'm not leaving."

He sobbed only harder at this, not deserving her care, not after what he'd just done. Not after anything he'd ever done.

She shifted off of his chest, to the side of him, but remained with half of her body on his, her head tucked against his shoulder, arm across his chest, her leg between his.

"Go to sleep, Patrick, I'm here. No more bad dreams tonight. Not while I'm here." Her voice was soft and full of love.

He couldn't help but listen.