Lisbon felt awful.

She blinked and told herself sternly to pay attention to the monthly budget meeting she was attending, but she felt dizzy and nauseous and it was difficult to focus. She hadn't been feeling well for the past several days and she knew her performance had been suffering as a result. After their recent success discovering Rebecca Anderson's true identity, she'd been able to devote her full attention to her research on the iron properties companies. As a result, she'd finally started making some progress on narrowing down the list of employees, but over the last few days she'd found herself more often than not scanning the lists of names only to realize she hadn't absorbed the words on the page she'd just read and having to start over again.

It was no good. Bernard from accounting was droning on about quarterly projections and Lisbon gave up trying to pay attention. She let her mind wander.

She hoped Jane was doing okay. She was worried about how he was reacting to Maldonado's death. He seemed fine, but it was so hard to tell with him sometimes. He'd definitely been rattled when it happened—hell, so had she—but in typical Jane fashion he betrayed barely a flicker in his composure. He'd seemed fine on their phone calls the last few nights, though, so maybe he really was all right. Yesterday, for example, he'd seemed far more interested in prying into the details of her life back in Chicago than discussing the fact that he'd had Maldonado's blood splattered all over him less than seventy two hours before.

She frowned and rubbed her temple absently against the headache that was trying valiantly to split her skull in two. She was really becoming too attached to those phone calls. Last night she'd had to beg off early because she hadn't been feeling well, but even with a pounding headache she'd been reluctant for the phone call to end. It was just—Jane so rarely shared anything personal about himself. For some reason, the phone calls had become a conduit for facts and anecdotes she'd never imagined hearing from him. She felt like she'd learned more about him over the course of their nightly check-ins in the past few weeks than she had over the past ten years. She greedily drank in the information he offered, and surprised herself by opening up more to him, as well. He always managed to surprise her with stories of things he'd done, or places he'd been. Sometimes he even just surprised her with an opinion on something she would have assumed he didn't care about. She'd always been curious about his past, but unlike Jane himself, she wasn't the type to push; she'd always respected his privacy. Lately, though, Jane had been sharing more of himself with her, entirely of his own volition.

She was jostled out of her reflections by the meeting breaking up at last. Thank God. Maybe she would take a leaf out of Jane's book and lie down on the couch in her office for awhile. Just until her stomach settled down a bit. Someone brushed past her and she swayed slightly. On second thought, maybe she should consider stopping by the ladies room before she vomited all over someone's shoes. With this in mind, she turned left instead of right when she got out of the conference room, concentrating hard on the goal of not throwing up in the hallway.

"Teresa, hey," a cheerful voice called her.

Lisbon tried to pretend she hadn't heard, intent on making a beeline for the nearest restroom, but a staying hand on her shoulder stopped her and she was forced to face her pursuer.

Saunders from Organized Crime was beaming at her. Lisbon smiled weakly back at him. "Hey, Saunders," she said politely, though what she was really thinking was: crap.

Saunders was nice enough, but she'd recently made a practice of avoiding him whenever she could. She'd had a run in with him at the last CBI holiday party that had alerted her to the fact that he had a more than friendly interest in her. She'd narrowly escaped being cornered under the mistletoe by him, but she'd had to take desperate measures to effect her escape, and she hadn't quite forgiven him for being the cause of the situation she'd found herself in as a result. She'd fled the offending sprig as soon as she'd spotted it bobbing its way towards her, held aloft by Saunders as he searched for her. Desperate for escape, she'd made the mistake of making a rash promise to Jane in exchange for him helping her hide out on the dance floor, where Saunders was unlikely to follow. Later, it had occurred to her that Jane probably would have danced with her anyway, if she'd just asked like a normal person instead of begging him for help and letting him see her desperation. By that point, however, she'd already allowed herself to be blackmailed into promising to sing backup for Rigsby the next time he managed to trick the team into going to O'Malley's on karaoke night. Really, Jane's sense of humor was completely beyond her at times. She'd wanted to sink into the floor when she'd had to get up on that stage with him sitting there in the front row looking so amused she thought his face might actually split in two from how wide he was smiling. Since then, she'd made it a practice to engage in evasive maneuvers whenever she spied Saunders heading her way with intent. Unfortunately, this time she hadn't seen him coming.

"How are you?"

She suppressed a groan. God, she hated small talk. Where was Jane when you needed him? He was good at offending people out of chit chatty moods. "Fine. How about yourself?"

"Oh, things are good. Really good. I think I'm going to be up for Ramirez's job when he leaves next month, did you know that? He got a gig with the FBI, so that unit coordinator position is going to be opening up."

"Good for you," she managed. Maybe if she took deep, calming breaths, she wouldn't throw up all over Saunders' really terrible tie.

"You think you'll apply for it?" he asked. "Of course, that would mean we would be competing for the same spot, but you'd be a good fit for it."

She shook her head, which she regretted immediately, as it only increased the dizziness she'd been experiencing. "Not really my thing. I hope you get it."

He smiled at her. "Thanks!"

"So, Jane been up to any crazy tricks lately?" he asked jovially.

"Oh, you know," she said evasively. "Jane is… Jane."

Saunders shook his head. "Man, I know he closes a lot of cases, and everything, but I can't believe some of the stuff the brass has let him get away with."

Lisbon shrugged. "They know his skills are invaluable to the team."

"I guess so. But actually, I didn't want to talk to you about Jane."

Lisbon cringed. "Oh?"

"Listen, Lisbon—Teresa," he said, stepping closer to her. "I've been wondering—"

Lisbon went sheet white as a whiff of his sour coffee breath assaulted her nose and tipped the scale of her nausea over the edge of tolerability, sending her stomach out of its fragile equilibrium. "Excuse me," she mumbled. "Sorry—not feeling well." And she bolted for the ladies room.

She made it just in time. The stall door banged closed behind her and she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet, retching violently. After, she slid down the wall of the stall and sat crumpled in a heap, feeling exhausted. God, what was the matter with her? She used to have an iron stomach, but lately it felt like the smallest little thing could send her off on a bout of queasiness.

Eventually, she dragged herself out of the stall.

Van Pelt was there, washing her hands.

"Hey," Lisbon said grouchily.

"Hey, boss," Van Pelt said.

Lisbon went to the sink and splashed cool water on her face. She rinsed her mouth and then bent her head to drink from the tap.

Van Pelt rummaged in her purse and wordlessly handed her a breath mint.

"Thanks," Lisbon said gratefully, tearing off the wrapper and popping the mint into her mouth.

"You okay, boss?" Van Pelt asked.

"'M fine," she mumbled around the breath mint.

Van Pelt smiled at her understandingly.

Lisbon frowned at her. That wasn't a normal smile. It was a knowing smile. Conspiratorial. Only she, Lisbon, had no idea what they were conspiring about.

"What?" she said irritably.

Van Pelt hesitated. "I'm not sure how to ask this…"

"Just spit it out," Lisbon said impatiently.

Van Pelt needed no more encouragement. "Boss, are you pregnant?" she asked gently.

Lisbon snorted. "Yeah, right."

Van Pelt looked disappointed. "Oh." Then— "Are you sure?"

Lisbon stared at her. "Are you serious?"

Van Pelt blinked. "Well… yeah."

"What the hell makes you think I might be pregnant?" Lisbon wanted to know.

"You just threw up in the ladies room at work," Van Pelt pointed out. "It's kind of a classic sign."

"I'm not pregnant," Lisbon said. "I just have this stomach bug I haven't been able to shake, that's all."

Van Pelt shook her head. "It's not a stomach bug."

"It's not?" Lisbon echoed, taken aback by Van Pelt's certainty on the matter.

"A stomach bug lasts a few days. A week, tops. You've been sick for weeks."

"No, I haven't," Lisbon denied. As soon as she said it, though, she had to stop and think about it. How long had this been going on, anyway? She'd been feeling poorly off and on for awhile, but she hadn't really been keeping track of the passage of time. She'd figured it was just stress compounding the symptoms from a particularly virulent strain of the flu. But things hadn't been that bad, had they? It's not like she'd been sick constantly—it seemed to come and go. Whenever the headaches or the nausea got bad enough that she started to consider going to the doctor, she'd get better for a few days and forget about it until they came back.

"You have. And it's worse in the mornings."

Lisbon did a double take. Van Pelt seemed to know an awful lot about it. "It is?"

"Yes. You're just like my sister was when she was pregnant with her first. You have morning sickness."

"No, I don't," Lisbon said, certain of her answer this time.

Van Pelt looked doubtful. "You might not have noticed it yet, but you really ought to go to the doctor to make sure."

Lisbon gave a mirthless laugh. "Trust me, if I were pregnant right now, it would be a medical miracle."

Van Pelt still wasn't convinced. "You're sure?"

"Van Pelt, I haven't even been on a single date in the past six months. Just who do you imagine I've been sleeping with who could have fathered this imaginary child you've invented?"

"I just assumed—"

"Assumed what?" Lisbon demanded.

"Well… you and Jane spend a lot of time together," Van Pelt said delicately.

Lisbon stared at her. "Patrick Jane?"

Van Pelt rolled her eyes. "Yes, Patrick Jane. Who else?"

Lisbon couldn't believe her ears. "All this time, you've been thinking Jane and I are having a child together?"

Van Pelt shrugged. "I don't see either of you settling down with anyone else."

Lisbon hadn't moved past the obvious point. "You think Jane and I are sleeping together?"

"You did spend the night together when you went to San Angelo a couple months ago," Van Pelt pointed out.

"We were in separate rooms!"

"Whatever," Van Pelt said. "I thought you guys had finally gotten past that whole denial thing. Guess I was wrong."

"Now you think we're in denial?" Lisbon spluttered.

"Yes," Van Pelt said. "It's obvious you belong together."

"No, it isn't."

"Sure it is. You guys are good for each other."

"Ha!" was all Lisbon could manage in response to such a preposterous statement.

"It's true," Van Pelt persisted. "You balance each other out."

Lisbon missed the days when she could intimidate Van Pelt into silence with a strong glare. "Jane and I are not sleeping together."

"Why not?" Van Pelt asked curiously.

The list of possible answers to that question was so long Lisbon didn't know where to begin. "We work together," she said finally.

Van Pelt looked unimpressed. "Right. Because Jane is so into following rules."

Lisbon glared at her. "I'm his boss."

Van Pelt huffed impatiently. "God, Lisbon, don't you ever get sick of doing what you're supposed to?"

She did get sick of it, as a matter of fact, but that didn't change the fact that someone had to be the responsible one. For better or worse, that someone usually tended to be her. "I—"

Van Pelt cut her off. "I tried following the rules, too, you know. And you know what it got me?"

"What?"

"Engaged to a murdering psychopath. You know what breaking the rules got me?"

"What?" Lisbon said warily.

"A good man who adored me, and some of the happiest times of my adult life."

"It's different with you and Rigsby," Lisbon said. "Rigsby's not…" in love with his dead wife, her brain finished for her, but that wasn't what she meant to say. "What I mean is—"

"Jane cares about you, Lisbon," Van Pelt told her. "I know he tries to hide it, especially from you, but anyone with half a brain can see you're the most important person in his life. If you don't know how he feels about you, then I'm sorry, but you haven't been paying attention."

Lisbon had no idea what to say to this.

Van Pelt picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. "I hope you're feeling better. And think about what I said."

She left Lisbon standing by the sink, dumbfounded.

Lisbon pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to recover her thoughts. Her stomach felt better after throwing up, but she still felt headachy and exhausted.

Van Pelt was being ridiculous. She'd actually seemed disappointed to find out Lisbon wasn't pregnant. Like she could handle having a baby in her life right now. Not that she had anything against kids—after raising her brothers, she'd always thought she'd have kids of her own one day. It was one of her few regrets that at this point that seemed unlikely ever to happen. Still, now would be the absolute worst time in the world for that long-buried wish to come true. In addition to the dangers and stress of her normal everyday life, the threat posed by Red John's continued freedom seemed to increase exponentially with every step that brought them closer to him. She didn't think she could bear having one more person she loved under the constant threat of being murdered by Red John.

And Van Pelt thought she and Jane were sleeping together. By this point, Lisbon was used to strangers assuming she and Jane were a couple, and she'd grown mostly immune to the gossip around the CBI that whispered the same, but Van Pelt actually knew them. To find out she had drawn her own conclusions about the nature of their relationship was a bit of a shock. Lisbon couldn't decide which was more surprising—that Van Pelt had independently formed the opinion she and Jane were sleeping together in the first place, or that she seemed to think it was something worthy of encouragement. If she really had been sleeping with Jane, she would have assumed Van Pelt would think she was the world's biggest hypocrite, given that Lisbon had been forced to write up her and Rigsby after Hightower had discovered they were together. But Van Pelt acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. God, did the whole team think she and Jane were sleeping together?

She supposed it wasn't a totally unreasonable assumption, she admitted to herself grudgingly, especially considering Jane's recent overprotective behavior. For her part, she knew she fussed over him more than the others, but she couldn't help it. The others had their own paths, but Jane always seemed a little bit lost. He needed more looking after. And she liked to be needed, so it made sense that they had been drawn to each other.

She wasn't an idiot. Contrary to what Van Pelt believed, she knew Jane cared about her. His paranoid fear for her life was evidence enough that he cared about her well-being. But they were friends, nothing more. He was still in love with his wife, and even if he hadn't been, he was too committed to his mission to have room in his life for anything else. Besides which, he was complicated and exasperating and just plain hard work. It was hard enough dealing with him as her friend and consultant. Having him more intimately involved in her personal life would be a whole other level of complicated.

That was a lie, of course. In her heart of hearts, she knew her own feelings for Jane ran much deeper than friendship. To be perfectly honest, the depth of those feelings scared the crap out of her. Most of the time it was a relief that Jane was too emotionally unavailable to make the likelihood of ever exploring those feelings further anything more than the remotest possibility. It was easier to love him quietly and secretly. The hope and longing that flared up when he did things like look at her too long in isolated hotel rooms and tell her she was sonnet-worthy was too dangerous to bear thinking about.

It was safer to keep him at arm's length. He already had the power to break her—if she let him get any closer to her, she might not be able to put herself back together when the crash inevitably came. So it was lucky, really, that he didn't feel the same way. And if sometimes he did things that made it seem like he felt something more than friendship for her, well, she just needed to be strong enough to recognize that the foolish hopes of unrequited love too easily convert deep-buried longing into dangerous illusions.

Her mind flashed to the poem he'd written about her. A tiny voice in her head whispered that surely the poem was a sign that Jane wasn't entirely indifferent to her. And there had been a moment when he'd come over her apartment the day Red John had sent him the lamb when she would have sworn he was going to kiss her. The voice was very keen to remind her of that.

She ignored the voice and focused on the matter at hand. Van Pelt had been right about one thing—she was sick. She'd been so consumed with the case that she hadn't noticed how bad it had gotten, writing off the periodic bouts of nausea and headaches as lingering symptoms of a stomach bug or as isolated incidents related to stress or something she'd eaten that day. But now that Van Pelt had pointed it out, she realized this had been going on for weeks.

She frowned. That was very unlike her. She was rarely ill, and when she was, she usually spent a couple days sleeping it off and then was as good as new. Maybe something was seriously wrong with her. Fear clutched at her chest at the thought. She'd always thought that if she died young, it would be in the line of duty, and while she knew from personal experience that gunshot wounds were no picnic, at least when they were fatal they usually did their business quickly. She couldn't bear the idea of slowly weakening over a period of months or years from some kind of debilitating illness. She hated the idea of being dependent on other people to help her get through the day to day elements of living. All in all, even death from Red John's knife would be preferable; at least that would be relatively quick.

But that didn't seem right. Surely a wasting illness would involve a steady degeneration by degrees? She'd been feeling sick, yes, but she'd also had periods when she'd bounced back and felt perfectly normal.

She left the bathroom and walked slowly back to her office, puzzling over her situation. A dark suspicion was beginning to form in her mind. She was probably overreacting, she told herself. Spending too much time with Jane and his paranoia. She needed to stop relying on self-diagnosis and go to the doctor to get a professional medical opinion.

She opened the door to her office to find Jane there, sitting on her couch and reading.

"Hey, Lisbon," he said without looking up.

"Hey."

He turned the page. "You're back late. Did Saunders manage to catch you after the budget meeting?"

She scowled. "Yes."

He chuckled. "You've got to give Saunders credit. He's awfully determined when he wants to be. Your efforts to avoid him were bound to fail eventually. Did he finally manage to keep you in one place long enough to ask you out?"

"No, I, um, escaped before he could ask me," Lisbon said uncomfortably.

Jane looked up. "If you weren't busy fending off Saunders, what have you been doing? You've been gone an awfully long time."

Lisbon ignored this.

"I know it sounds ridiculous," Lisbon said. "But I wasn't feeling well and I threw up after the meeting. Van Pelt saw me in the ladies room and, uh…"

"And what?"

"She asked me if I was pregnant," Lisbon said, not quite able to meet his eyes as she said it. She could feel a flush creeping up her neck. She prayed Jane wouldn't notice it, but didn't have much hope that he wouldn't. Curse her Irish skin.

"Pregnant?" Jane said blankly. "How on earth could you be pregnant? You haven't been on a date in over six mo—" he stopped abruptly as realization dawned. "Ah. I see. Van Pelt thinks I'm the one who knocked you up."

Lisbon's face flamed. "Well… yeah."

He shook his head. "Van Pelt really ought to know better by this point. Has she learned nothing from me about the art of observation? If we were sleeping together, we'd both be much more cheerful all the time."

"That isn't the point, Jane," Lisbon said, relieved he wasn't going to make a big deal of this.

"What is the point, then?"

"Van Pelt asked me if I was pregnant because she thought I had morning sickness. Obviously that's not the case, but her question made me realize I've been sick an awful lot over the past few weeks."

Jane frowned. "That's true. You've been experiencing headaches and nausea."

"Right. I thought I just hadn't completely gotten over that virus I had a few weeks ago, but then I started thinking there might be something more to it."

He looked intrigued. "Do tell."

She hesitated. "Jane, if I ask you a question, will you promise not to freak out?"

"I'm hardly given to freaking out, Lisbon," Jane said, rolling his eyes. "I think I've demonstrated by this point that I can keep calm under pressure."

Lisbon took a deep breath. "Do you think it's possible I'm being poisoned?"

Jane went very still. "What?" he said in a voice that was not his own.

"I just thought—I don't normally get sick that often," she fumbled, feeling ridiculous about how over-the-top it all sounded now that she was saying it out loud. "And since you've been so paranoid about that stuffed lamb meaning that Red John was after me, I thought maybe—"

Jane jumped up from the couch. "Oh, my God," he said, wild-eyed. "You're being poisoned."

"Maybe," she qualified quickly, alarmed at the frantic nature of his reaction. "It's just a theory. I'll need to go to my doctor to make sure—"

Jane shook his head. "You can't go to your doctor."

"I'm going to have to at some point if I want to find out for sure," she pointed out. "Not to mention figuring out how to deal with it."

"Of course you need medical attention," Jane said impatiently. "You need to see a doctor immediately. But you shouldn't go see your normal doctor. Red John will be expecting that. He'll have planned for it. What's your doctor's name?"

"Dr. Sheila Nair."

"He'll have gotten to Dr. Nair somehow. Tricked her, hypnotized her, or blackmailed her. Or he might have planted someone in her office or in the pharmacy you use—someone who could switch out whatever treatment Dr. Nair prescribed for something that would hasten, rather than counteract, the effects of whatever drug Red John has been slipping you."

"Jane, you're overreacting again. We don't even know for sure what's happening, and you've already plotted out five steps in a conspiracy that may or may not be real. I could just be sick."

He stepped towards her and grabbed her by the shoulders, giving her a little shake. She winced, as the shake didn't help with the headache and lingering dizziness she was still experiencing, but Jane didn't let go. "Wake up, Lisbon," he said angrily. "You never had a virus. Red John has been poisoning you for weeks—since before he even sent that damn lamb. You have shadows under your eyes, and you've lost weight recently—weight you can't afford to lose. You're pale and clammy. God, I can't believe I let this happen. I can't believe I didn't see it. I've been so focused on looking outward for threats I didn't notice what was happening before my own eyes." A ragged breath tore from his chest. "I should have noticed. I should have noticed he was taking you away right in front of me."

Lisbon knew she ought to say something reassuring, but all she could think to say was, "This is you not freaking out?"

He chuckled then, a mirthless laugh that was unfamiliar to her, and he stepped even closer to her, wrapping his arms around her. "Forgive me," he said. "I would never have made such a promise if I'd had any idea you were going to drop that kind of bombshell on me."

He clutched her tight, and to her surprise, she could feel him trembling against her. "You're shaking," she observed wonderingly.

"Yes," he said, surprising her further with the admission. He leaned back to look in her eyes but did not release her entirely. He smiled ruefully. "That tends to happen when I'm forced to face the possibility of losing you."

It occurred to Lisbon that this was the third time in as many months that he'd panicked and held her like this. Unbidden, Van Pelt's words echoed in her mind. Jane cares about you. If you haven't noticed that by now, you haven't been paying attention.

She shoved this entirely unproductive thought from her mind. "So what do we do now?"

He stepped away from her reluctantly, but slid one hand down her arm to capture her hand in his. She permitted this, feeling it would be unwise to make a fuss about it and risk agitating him further. For her part, she was feeling unsettled by how natural it felt to stand hand in hand with Jane while they contemplated their next plan of action.

He considered only for a moment before deciding. "We have to go," he announced, keeping a tight grip on her hand.

He started for the door, pulling her along behind him. He walked quickly and she struggled to keep up as he strode through the bullpen without indicating he had any indication of stopping until they'd gotten to the bottom of this.

The rest of the team looked up at the unexpected sight of Jane dragging Lisbon through the bullpen by the hand.

Van Pelt and Rigsby just stared at them in surprise, but Cho stood up, instantly on the alert. "What's wrong?"

Mindful of how they must look with Jane towing her behind him with that intense expression on his face and remembering her recent revelation that her team probably all thought they were sleeping together, it occurred to Lisbon that the team might be under the impression Jane was kidnapping her for a quickie in the supply closet or something. She opened her mouth to explain, but Jane responded before she had a chance. "Lisbon's been poisoned," he said tersely. "I'm taking her to see a doctor."

"Oh, my God," Grace said, horrified.

"Poisoned?" Rigsby repeated. "But—it's not serious, is it?"

"Of course it's serious," Jane snapped. "She's been poisoned."

Cho's eyes flicked to Lisbon's. "You going to be okay?"

She nodded, rolling her eyes a little at Jane's dramatics. "I'm fine."

Cho looked back at Jane. "You're taking her to the hospital?"

"That won't be necessary," Lisbon said before Jane could reply. "Whatever it is, it's not acute. I'm just going to go to my GP and see if she can figure out what's going on. I should probably call her," she added as an afterthought. "See if she has any appointments free this afternoon."

"We've been over this," Jane said. "You can't go to your normal doctor. She might have been compromised."

"You're acting like it's an established fact that I've been poisoned when in reality it's nothing more than a vague suspicion." Her mind strayed back to the idea that she might have some kind of long term illness. "It's entirely plausible that there's some other explanation."

"Stubborn woman," Jane said, exasperated. "This is your own theory, and you're already doubting it?"

She wriggled her hand free of his grasp and folded her arms across her chest. "It's just a theory, Jane. A good investigator doesn't discount alternative explanations until there's solid proof in favor of one or another."

Jane stepped closer to her, as though he had noticed her extricating herself from his hold but wished to make it clear he had no intention of letting her stray far from his side. "How many times have I told you, your first instinct is usually the right one?"

"Be that as it may, we're not going to figure it out by standing around talking about it amongst ourselves. We need a medical professional to run tests and give us a firm diagnosis before we can hope to have this whole thing resolved."

"I agree. The fact remains, however, that if you are being poisoned, it's too dangerous to go to your normal doctor. Red John would be expecting that."

"Well, what do you suggest?" Lisbon huffed.

Jane didn't miss a beat. "I know this great clinic in Nevada where we can pay in cash and no one will ask any awkward questions."

"No," Lisbon said firmly. "I'm not going all the way to Nevada just to go to the doctor."

Jane glared at her. "I'm not going to hand you over to someone who might be under Red John's influence."

Lisbon sighed, recognizing the stubborn set to his jaw. She was probably never going to be able to go to Dr. Nair for a checkup again. That was a shame, because she was a damn good doctor. "Compromise?"

"What do you suggest?" he said tightly.

"I still have the number for my old doctor in San Francisco. I can call her and ask if she'd be willing to see me even though I'm not her patient anymore."

Jane considered this. "Okay. But we go now, and we don't call ahead."

Realizing this was the best she was going to get, Lisbon relented. "Fine."

"Be safe," Cho said, his eyes serious.

"Don't worry," Jane said grimly. "When it comes to Lisbon's safety, he won't catch me unawares again."

Great. That meant he was going to be even more overprotective than usual. Lisbon sighed, resigning herself to the inevitable, and turned to Cho. "We'll call you guys when we know more, okay?"

"Okay," Cho said.

Jane was radiating tension, and she could tell he was on the verge of grabbing hold of her again and dragging her to the doctor forcibly if she didn't get a move on. Clearly anxious to get going, he addressed the team irritably. "In the meantime, see if you can't figure out how the hell Red John might have poisoned Lisbon right under our noses, won't you?"

"Will do," Van Pelt said, wide-eyed.

"Good." He turned to Lisbon. "Let's go," he said curtly.

Lisbon went, deciding not to think about the fact that no one on the team seemed to find it the least remarkable that Jane intended to go with her to the doctor. He fixed his gaze on her in a way that made her think he had absolutely no intention of letting her out of his sight for the foreseeable future. Good Lord. If it turned out she really had been poisoned, he was going to be insufferable.

Xxx

Jane made the two hour drive to San Francisco in an hour and twenty minutes.

Lisbon held onto the dashboard with a white-knuckled grip. "Jane, can you please slow down?" she pleaded.

"Lisbon, someone may have introduced slow-acting toxins into your system, and we have no idea what they might be or how to counteract them. There's no time to waste. Is this really the best time for you to be complaining about my driving style?"

"It's not that," she told him, clenching her jaw to fight back the nausea. "I'm just still not feeling that well."

Jane looked at her sharply and instantly lessened the pressure of his foot on the gas. "Sorry," he said contritely.

"It's okay," she said, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth in controlled breaths.

Jane obligingly kept the speedometer at a more reasonable level, but he was hunched over the steering wheel as though pushing himself physically forward would get them to their intended destination faster, and his tension level seemed to ratchet up with every mile they traveled at the reduced speed.

Finally, Lisbon had had enough. "Oh, for God's sake," she snapped. "Drive as fast as you want."

He looked at her, half relieved, half apologetic. "You sure?"

She smiled weakly. "I'll probably feel better when I get out of the car, anyway. Might as well make that sooner rather than later."

"Thanks," he said gratefully. He sped up again, but Lisbon noticed he kept his weaving in and out of traffic to a minimum after that.

Xxx

Jane stopped her just outside the door of the office suite housing the practice of Dr. Myra Cavendish. "How do you know Dr. Cavendish?" he asked abruptly.

Lisbon blinked. "I was referred to her by the hospital after this punk Eagan Ramsay stabbed me in the leg back when I was a beat cop in San Francisco."

"Did you talk to her about the assault?"

"Sure, I guess. Ramsay's wife followed me here one time, raving that I was a psychotic bitch who had it in for her husband and insisting that I drop the charges against him. Myra had to call security to have her escorted from the building. Obviously I had to tell her the whole story after that."

"What was the wife's name?"

Lisbon scrunched up her face, remembering. "Jessica, I think. Why?"

Jane didn't answer, but opened the door. He took Lisbon's hand in his again and strode over to the receptionist's desk. "Hello," he said gruffly. "My wife has an appointment with Dr. Cavendish."

The receptionist tapped on her keyboard. "What is the name of the patient?" she asked in a bored tone.

"Jessica Ramsay."

Lisbon groaned inwardly. She should have known.

The receptionist, whose name tag identified her as 'Mindy,' tapped some more on her keyboard. "I don't have an appointment listed under that name for today."

"Honestly," Jane huffed indignantly. "This is the third time Dr. Cavendish has had to reschedule the appointment, and now you're saying you haven't even logged it properly in the system?"

The receptionist looked annoyed. "Perhaps you made a mistake about the time?"

"We haven't made a mistake. The medical assistant, what's her name—"

"Ginger?" Mindy guessed.

"Yes, Ginger, called to confirm the appointment."

"Well, it's not in here."

Jane exhaled in the manner of a man exerting great deal of effort to maintain his patience. "Can you please just tell Dr. Cavendish Jessica Ramsay is here to see her?"

Mindy looked at him suspiciously, guessing correctly that he was full of shit, but too professional to call him on it. "I'll let her know and see if she can squeeze you into the schedule," she said tartly.

"Thank you," Jane said, very much on his dignity.

"Jane," Lisbon hissed in his ear after a nervous glance around them. "This waiting room is full of people who actually made appointments. It's not fair to barge in here and hop the line."

"Oh, please," Jane said. "None of them is being poisoned by a notorious serial killer. That woman over there is clearly suffering from an incurable case of hypochondria. She won't take any lasting harm from having to wait a few extra minutes to air her imaginary complaints to the good doctor."

The door to the inner office opened, and a good-looking woman about ten years older than Lisbon stood in the doorway, staring at Lisbon. Mindy the receptionist stood behind her, a pissed off expression on her face.

"Jessica Ramsay?" Dr. Cavendish said uncertainly.

Lisbon smiled weakly. "Hi, Dr. Cavendish."

Dr. Cavendish gestured for Lisbon to enter. "Come on back."

Lisbon walked toward the door.

Jane made to follow her, and she stopped. "You think you're coming in here with me?" she said incredulously.

"You think I'm not coming in there with you?" Jane said, equally incredulous.

"Jane, this is a doctor's appointment. It's personal. You cannot come in with me."

"It's not like I'm asking to attend your pelvic exam, Lisbon."

Only Jane would think this was a reasonable argument. "You're not coming in."

"Fine," he said. "I'll stay out here. But are you sure you can trust me not to make a scene while my wife is talking to her doctor?"

Lisbon recognized this for the threat it was. She glanced around and realized that everyone in the place was staring at them as they conducted this hushed conversation. She had no doubt that Jane would make good on his threat in the most unpleasant way possible if she didn't let him have his way. "Fine," she said, annoyed. "You can come in."

Accordingly, they followed Dr. Cavendish into an empty exam room, leaving Mindy the receptionist fuming outside.

"So, Jessica," Dr. Cavendish said curiously. "What can I do for you today?"

Lisbon winced at the use of the alias. "Sorry about that," she said, shooting a glare at Jane. "My friend Patrick here is a bit of a practical joker. How are you, Myra?"

"Can't complain," Dr. Cavendish said, eyeing Jane speculatively. "Your friend, Patrick, huh? Looks like you've been moving up in the world in more ways than one since you joined the CBI, Teresa."

Jane took this opportunity to step forward and extend his hand to Dr. Cavendish. "Patrick Jane," he introduced himself. "So pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Cavendish. Any friend of Teresa's is a friend of mine."

"Likewise," Dr. Cavendish said.

She started to pull her hand away, but Jane held onto it, looking deep into her eyes. "You have remarkable eyes, Dr. Cavendish, has anyone ever told you that? They're really a striking shade of gray, your eyes. Like the color of the ocean on a cloudy day. There's something so soothing about the color of the ocean on a cloudy day, isn't there? Your eyes are just that color. Such a lovely, soothing color, your eyes."

At that moment, Dr. Cavendish's lovely gray eyes were growing rather glassy and unfocused. Lisbon realized what he was doing just in time.

"Jane!" she hissed. "Cut that out!"

Dr. Cavendish's eyes slid back into focus as the trance was broken.

Jane let go of her hand. "We don't know if we can trust her, Lisbon," he said unapologetically.

"No hypnotizing the good doctor, Jane," Lisbon said firmly. "I've known her for fifteen years. I promise she's trustworthy."

Dr. Cavendish's gray eyes widened. "Hypnotizing?"

Jane shrugged. "A hobby of mine."

"I should have left you in the car," Lisbon muttered. "I am so sorry, Myra. He was raised by wolves, never learned any manners."

"Carnie folk, actually," Jane corrected her. "They're more in the practice of teaching the art of hypnotism to their young than wolves are."

Dr. Cavendish was still staring at him. "Teresa," she said slowly, her eyes still fixed on Jane. "Would you like to tell me what on earth is going on?"

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry," Lisbon apologized again. "You must be terribly confused about all this. Unfortunately, there's a bit of a need for secrecy at the moment. You see, I've been having, uh, a problem, you know, of a medical nature, and we needed—that is, I needed to talk to someone I could trust to be discreet."

Dr. Cavendish's eyes narrowed at Jane, but she still addressed Lisbon. "Why didn't you go to your normal doctor in Sacramento?" she asked suspiciously.

"Long story," Lisbon sighed. "There isn't really time to explain it all, I'm afraid. Do you think you can help me?"

Dr. Cavendish looked back at Lisbon. "Help you with what?"

"Well, I've been feeling nauseous quite a bit recently," Lisbon began. "Over the past several weeks. I didn't think anything of it at first, but it's been going on so long I started to think something might be wrong."

Dr. Cavendish looked at her incredulously. "You know I'm not an OBGYN, right? Shouldn't you be consulting your obstetrician about these symptoms?"

"This was a bad idea," Jane said. "Lisbon, we should go. This woman obviously doesn't know you well enough to be entrusted with your health and safety."

"What? Jane, you're being paranoid again. Myra is a good doctor, and I'm not letting you drive me to Nevada to go to some clinic in the middle of nowhere."

"Dr. Cavendish is obviously under the impression that you're having some kind of clandestine affair with me," Jane said impatiently. "She noticed my wedding ring and doesn't know I'm a widower, so naturally she drew the obvious conclusion. She therefore assumed you didn't want to go to your normal doctor because you didn't want anyone to finding out you were expecting a child with someone else's husband."

"Okay, I didn't do a good job explaining myself, but that's not Myra's fault—"

Jane cut her off. "If she knew you at all, she'd know you'd never sleep with a married man; therefore, she does not know you as well as you think she does. If she doesn't know you as well as you think she does, it stands to reason you don't know her as well as you think you do, either. And if you don't know her as well as you say you do, then she can't be trusted and we need to go somewhere else."

"I trust her, Jane," Lisbon said firmly. "If you don't feel that you can trust my judgment on this point, you're free to leave, and Dr. Cavendish and I will have this conversation alone."

Jane scowled. He crossed his arms across his chest and leaned against the far wall pointedly, clearly indicating he had no intention of being left out of the conversation.

Lisbon turned to Dr. Cavendish. "Myra, I'm not pregnant."

"You're sure?" she asked, with another glance at Jane, who was glowering at her.

Lisbon nodded. "Positive."

"Okay," she said, shaking her head a little. "Can you tell me a little more about what specifically is worrying you?"

Lisbon paused, unsure how to put words to her concern without sounding completely melodramatic.

Jane, of course, had no such reservations. "Lisbon is being poisoned," he told Dr. Cavendish. "We need you to help us figure out with what, and how to reverse the effects."

Dr. Cavendish's jaw dropped. "Poisoned?"

"Yes, poisoned," Jane confirmed. "Someone is trying to kill her."

"We're not sure of that," Lisbon said hastily. "We were hoping you could help us determine if that's really the case or if I'm just developing a pre-ulcerous condition because of having to deal with Jane all the time."

"Hey, I've been very good lately," Jane protested. "If I were going to cause you to have an ulcer, don't you think it would have happened already?"

Lisbon shot him a look that said Not helping, and Jane shut up.

Dr. Cavendish was looking like she'd been hit on the back of the head with a heavy object. "You really think someone is poisoning you?" she asked Lisbon.

"It's just a possibility we're looking into," Lisbon said, feeling silly. Really, who went to the doctor and said, Excuse me, doctor, but I think I'm being poisoned?

"You were threatened by a serial killer, Lisbon!" Jane burst out, moving away from the wall and stepping towards her. "Would you please stop acting like someone accidentally stepped on your foot in line at the grocery store?"

Lisbon glared at him. "Jane, can you please let Dr. Cavendish do her job, and not try to influence her opinion before she has all the information she needs to come to a conclusion?"

Dr. Cavendish, who felt like she'd been on the back foot since these two first entered her exam room, decided it was time for her to take the reins in hand. Recollecting herself, she turned to Jane. "Right. Mr. Jane, kindly sit down and be quiet so I can talk to my patient, or I will be forced to sedate you."

Jane looked at her, surprised, but he sat.

She turned back to Lisbon. "Tell me your symptoms," she said brusquely.

Lisbon obeyed, listing her symptoms and describing the frequency of their occurrence.

Dr. Cavendish scribbled in her notebook, asking questions about Lisbon's habits and recent medical history in addition to requesting clarification about some of the symptoms she named. She checked Lisbon's pupils and her reflexes, felt her abdomen for any irregularities, and drew a blood sample.

"I'll send this to the lab straight away," she told them once the blood sample had been prepared. "Do you want to wait for the results, or do you want me to call you once we get them back? It might be awhile."

"We'll wait," Jane told her.

"All right. I'm going to attend to my other patients while we're waiting for the results, but you're welcome to stick around. The results should be back later this afternoon."

"Thank you," Lisbon said. "I really appreciate you helping us out with this."

"Of course." The doctor looked around the exam room. "Under the circumstances, perhaps you'd be more comfortable waiting in here, rather than in the waiting room?"

"I don't want to inconvenience you any more than we already have," Lisbon protested. "I'm sure you need this exam room for your other patients."

Dr. Cavendish shook her head. "It's no trouble. I have other exam rooms."

"Thank you," Jane said sincerely. "We'll wait here, if that's all right."

"Very well," Dr. Cavendish picked up the blood sample as she prepared to leave. "I'll put a rush on it, but it might be awhile before we get the results back."

Jane laid a staying hand on Dr. Cavendish's arm before she could leave. "Do me a favor, Doc," he said in a low voice. "Run the tests under another name, will you?"

She stopped and looked at him. "Is it that bad?"

Jane nodded. "I'm afraid so. We're dealing with a very dangerous man here."

She glanced back at Lisbon. "I'll take care of it."

Jane fidgeted restlessly while they waited for the results to come back. Lisbon, still on the exam table and tired of watching him pace the small room like a caged animal, closed her eyes against her lingering headache and actually fell asleep for awhile.

When she woke, Jane had stopped pacing and was sitting on a stool next to her. He held her left hand in both of his. His head was bowed, his forehead lowered to rest on the knuckles of their clasped hands. It looked almost like an attitude of prayer. Except Jane didn't believe in prayer.

He looked up when he sensed her stirring. He looked lost, his eyes boring into her hungrily, tinted with a desperation that made her uneasy. She smiled weakly and patted their joined hands with her free one, hoping this would comfort him enough that he would stop looking her with such frightening intensity.

She sat up, bringing her free hand to her temple and massaging it lightly.

Jane let her hand go and brought one hand up to tentatively touch her hair. "Feeling better?"

"A bit," Lisbon told him, ignoring how good his hand felt in her hair. A feeling she didn't want to name snaked up her chest and throat and threatened to choke her. Sometimes Jane was so good at making her feel, well… cared for. She blinked against the feeling and struggled to regain her equilibrium.

His fingers stroked the ends of her hair, brushing gently against her spine. "Is the headache gone?"

If he didn't stop that soon, she was going to push him off his stool. "Mostly," she answered. She told herself to shift away from his soothing fingers, but couldn't quite bring herself to obey her own mandate. It was all right, she comforted herself. She wasn't well. She could be strong again tomorrow.

Dr. Cavendish returned then, carrying a slim file and a box that reminded Lisbon of a box her father used to use as a container for fishing tackle.

"I figured it out," she announced without preamble. She looked at Lisbon. "You were right. You are being poisoned."

Jane dropped his fingers from the path they were tracing along Lisbon's spine and looked at her accusingly. "I told you. I told you he was after you."

Part of her was actually relieved he was being a jackass again. "Seriously?" Lisbon said incredulously. "You're choosing now to say I told you so?"

Jane ignored her and turned to Dr. Cavendish. "What's she being poisoned with?"

"I'm not positive exactly which chemical agent was used, but it looks like some kind of organophosphate."

Jane stared at her. "Which means what, exactly?"

"It's a chemical compound commonly found in agricultural pesticides," she explained.

"So it's fairly easy to acquire," Jane mused.

"It's not something you could buy at a regular hardware store or anything, but it's widely used in agriculture, so if you worked on a farm or something it wouldn't be hard to get your hands on it."

"Are you sure that's what it is?"

"Reasonably sure, yes. Organophosphates are cholinesterase inhibitors, which interfere with the body's regulation of the nervous system. It's hard to tell for certain without a baseline sample to compare the results to, but at the moment, Teresa's cholinesterase levels are about fifty percent lower than I would expect them to be."

Jane scrubbed his hand over his jaw. "How could she have been exposed?"

"She might have absorbed it through the skin, or through inhalation. It's also possible she could have ingested it through food or drinking water."

Lisbon considered this. "How long between time of exposure and when symptoms occur?"

"Symptoms could occur immediately after exposure, or up to twelve hours later. Usually, though, symptoms will present within four hours of exposure."

"That's good; a fairly narrow window," Lisbon said. "That should help us figure out how he managed to dose me."

"Never mind about that, what's the course of treatment? What's the cure?" Jane demanded.

"We need to prevent her from coming into any further contact with the source immediately."

"Yes, but surely there's something you can give her," Jane said impatiently.

Dr. Cavendish shook her head. "I can prescribe a painkiller for the headaches, of course, and some anti-nausea medication, which will help manage the worst effects of the symptoms she's been experiencing, but I'm afraid the only long term solution is to prevent further exposure."

Jane looked like he'd been physically struck. "But…there must be something you can do to make her better."

"This isn't like the movies, Mr. Jane," she said gently. "I'm afraid there's no antidote. But I don't want you to panic; if we can identify the source of the poison and make sure she doesn't come into contact with it again, Teresa should be right as rain in short order."

"Are there any long term effects?" Lisbon asked.

"If your exposure continues, there are a number of complications that could develop down the line, but at this point, I don't think you need to worry about that. If you can avoid further exposure, your symptoms should go away on their own in a few days."

"What happens if we can't figure out how he's doing it and she continues to absorb the poison?" Jane asked.

"If exposure continues over a prolonged period of time, I'm afraid the consequences could be very serious," Dr. Cavendish said, addressing Lisbon. "You could have seizures, lose muscle control, or slip into a coma. And of course, anything is toxic in high enough concentrations; if you absorbed the poison in a more concentrated dose, it could lead to cardiac arrest."

Lisbon shuddered. "Good thing we caught it when we did."

"Yes," Dr. Cavendish agreed. "You're very lucky. Have you ever heard the expression 'When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras?'"

"No." Lisbon said.

"It's kind of a slang for doctors," Dr. Cavendish explained. "It basically means, don't go out of your way to diagnose a rare disease when a common one explains the symptoms just as well. If you hear hoofbeats, the animal making the noise is more likely to be a horse than a zebra. In North America, anyway. In your case, however, the hoofbeats are a zebra."

"I'm not sure I'm quite following," Lisbon confessed.

"The primary means of diagnosing organophosphate poisoning is identifying the circumstances that might have led to exposure and pairing them with the resulting symptoms," Dr. Cavendish told them. "If you were a farm worker, or worked in a chemical plant, and complained of the symptoms you've been experiencing, I would have asked you about your level of exposure to pesticides immediately. But for someone with your job and lifestyle, it wouldn't have occurred to me that you would have had exposure to that kind of chemical agent."

Jane was thinking deeply about something. "What would have happened if she'd gone to her normal doctor and complained of the symptoms she's been having, without having any idea that she might have been poisoned?" he wanted to know.

She shrugged. "There are a hundred conditions that present with symptoms of headaches and nausea. If Teresa came to me complaining of these things without the additional context clue of possible poisoning, I don't think it would have occurred to me to test her for organophosphates. I would have kept trying out different diagnoses, different treatments, until we found something that fit, but to be honest, I can't say with certainty I would have discovered the correct answer in time."

"You're saying another doctor might not have ever figured out what was wrong with her until it was too late?"

"It's possible."

"That was his plan," Jane said softly. "That was what he wanted to happen all along."

"Well, we figured it out, so he's not going to get his wish," Lisbon said firmly. "Really, he should have killed me when he had the chance. I'm surprised at him-leaving me alive was downright sloppy."

Jane smiled without humor. "He underestimated you."

"Yes, he did," Lisbon agreed. "I, for one, intend to make him regret that mistake." She turned back to Dr. Cavendish. "So what do we do next?"

"You need to find the source of the poison," Dr. Cavendish said.

"How are we going to know for sure when we find it?" Lisbon asked.

Dr. Cavendish opened the tackle box and took out a small vial, a bottle of clear liquid, and a jar of cotton swabs. "I want you to take these things everywhere you go until you figure out what vehicle is being used to deliver the poison. If you see something you suspect could be carrying the poison, swab it with a cotton swab for residue. Pour about an ounce of liquid into the vial, and put the cotton swab in the vial. If the liquid in the vial turns blue, you've found your culprit. If it stays clear, you've got to keep looking."

"Is there anything else we should know?"

Dr. Cavendish shook her head. "I think that pretty much covers it."

"We won't take up any more of your time, then." Lisbon looked at Jane. "You ready to go?"

He nodded.

Lisbon stood up. "I can't thank you enough, Myra," she said, shaking the other woman's hand. "Sorry about all the cloak and dagger stuff."

Dr. Cavendish patted her hand. "Not at all, Teresa. Glad to be of assistance. I only wish the circumstances were better."

"Me, too."

"Come back and visit sometime once you've resolved this whole thing. Remember, if your symptoms get worse, you need to seek medical attention immediately." She looked at Jane. "I trust you'll see that she goes to the hospital straight away if there's any sign she's worsening."

"Don't worry, Doc," Jane said. "I'll be keeping a very close eye on her from here on out."

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "For God's sake, Jane, you make it sound like I'm completely incapable of exercising common sense. How many times do I have to tell you I can take care of myself?"

"You always say that, but now that you've let yourself get poisoned. I'm no longer sure you can be trusted with such an important responsibility."

"Let myself—"

"Obviously, I'm going to have to take over the duties of making sure you're looked after properly."

"Lord help me," Lisbon groaned, and escaped before he could expound any further on the subject.

Jane turned to the doctor and extended his hand. "Thank you, Dr. Cavendish."

"You're welcome, Mr. Jane." She looked after Lisbon. "I know she's a bit prickly, but don't let her put you off. Take good care of her."

"Believe me," he said. "I intend to."

Xxx

Since Lisbon had barely eaten anything all day and had thrown up what little she had eaten that morning, Jane informed her he wasn't going to take her back to Sacramento until she got something in her stomach. He took her to a little restaurant he knew and made sure she consumed her whole bowl of soup and two rolls while he brooded over his mushroom risotto.

Afterwards, in the car, they drove for several moments before Jane broke the silence. "I'm sorry."

"Good," Lisbon said, looking out the window. "You should be. I can't believe you tried to hypnotize Dr. Cavendish."

"Not about that," he said, exasperated.

She turned to look at him. "About what, then?"

"I'm sorry I let this happen to you," he said, shame-faced.

She sighed. "Jane, this isn't your fault."

"I should have noticed you were sick," he said.

"You did notice." She gave him a wry smile. "You brought me chicken soup, remember?"

"Chicken soup," he said bitterly. "Some tonic for organophosphate poisoning."

She shrugged. "It's the thought that counts."

"I should have realized what was going on," he insisted.

"As much as you like to act like you are, you're not omniscient, Jane. You couldn't have known."

"I knew he was after you," he said stubbornly. "I should have been on the lookout for something like this."

"Stop right there," she ordered him. "You are not allowed to blame yourself for this."

"But—"

"No," she said sharply. "You warned me he was going to come after me. You hung tin cans on my doorknob. You've done everything you could think of to protect me, even when I was fighting you every step of the way. There's nothing more you could have done. I am not going to permit you to wallow in guilt over this. In fact, let me set the record straight on one thing. Even if Red John does kill me—"

Jane shuddered.

"If he does kill me," Lisbon persisted. "I want you to know that I would never blame you for something that he did to me. You are not responsible for that man's actions, Jane. So if I do die, you're not to spend the next ten years burying yourself in self-recrimination, you hear me?"

Jane looked away. "I hear you."

Lisbon looked straight ahead. "Good."

Jane started fidgeting again, which he'd been doing all afternoon and which was most unlike him. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. Grace was right, it does tend to be worse in the mornings."

"No, I mean about being poisoned in general."

"Oh." She contemplated this. "I suppose I haven't really processed it yet. It doesn't seem quite real. I mean, who actually gets poisoned these days? It's like I've been dropped into a bad Victorian murder mystery novel. In a way, I'm kind of relieved it isn't something more serious."

"What the hell do you mean 'something more serious?' A serial killer is poisoning you. How much more serious does it get?" Jane said disbelievingly.

"I don't know, at least it's not cancer or something like that."

His heart clenched at the thought. "Cancer doesn't target specific individuals with malicious intent."

She shrugged. "But with this, there's something we can do about it. Myra said I'll be fine as soon as we figure out how I'm being exposed and make sure I don't come into contact with the source again."

"You're not scared?"

"Sure, I guess," she said unconvincingly.

"You don't sound so sure about that."

"Like I said, I haven't really processed it yet. At the moment, mainly I'm just feeling annoyed at having to admit you were right about Red John coming after me," she said, her mouth turning downward in a slight pout.

He chuckled despite himself. "That's my Lisbon." Her pout grew more pronounced. Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to kiss it off her.

She looked at him. "You aren't going to start acting all weird now, are you?" she asked suspiciously.

He glanced back at her. "Acting all weird?"

"Yes, you know, doing that thing you've been doing," she said, gesturing vaguely. "Hovering, acting all possessive and stuff."

"I haven't been acting possessive," Jane said defensively. He considered his recent behavior. Okay, he might have been acting the tiniest bit possessive. But he could hardly help that, given everything that had been going on, could he?

Lisbon avoided his gaze. "Whatever. I just want things to go back to normal, okay? I don't want you treating me differently just because I've been, you know…"

"Poisoned," Jane finished for her. "Yes, God forbid I take any special measures to comfort and care for you now that I know for certain Red John is actively taking steps to kill you."

She scowled. "All I'm saying is, I don't want you treating me like I'm some kind of damsel in distress, all right?"

"Someone is trying to murder you," he pointed out. "I'd say that qualifies as distress of the highest order." He cast a sidelong look at her. "And you have to admit, you make a pretty enchanting damsel."

"What?" Lisbon spluttered.

He gestured at her. "Oh, come on. The luminous green eyes, the raven locks… classic damsel material. I grant you, in the old school fairy tales, you don't often come across damsels who pack their own heat, but as heroines go, I don't see how anyone could come up with a more appealing package. A woman of valor, with killer aim and a pure heart. A man couldn't ask for a better damsel to be tailor made for him."

"I thought it was men of valor who are more commonly valued in whole the fairy tale tradition."

"Meh," Jane said dismissively. "What did the Grimm brothers know? They were academics who probably never got laid in their lives."

Lisbon laughed in spite of herself. "You're a ridiculous man."

"That's why you love me," he said airily, turning his attention back to the road.

Lisbon looked back at the road, too, and took note of where they were. "Hey," she said suddenly, laying a hand on his sleeve. "Turn right up here, will you?"

"What? Lisbon, the onramp to get back to I-80 is straight in front of us. There's a great big sign less than two hundred yards away announcing that fact. Forget the poisoning, maybe I should have taken you to the eye doctor instead so you could get fitted for a pair of glasses." He paused, considering. "Actually, you'd look good in glasses, Lisbon. If that whole damsel thing doesn't work out for you, I think you could pull off that sexy librarian look very well."

"Seriously, Jane. Turn."

"Stern taskmaster by day, seductive temptress by night—"

"Oh, for God's sake, for once in your life, will you just listen to me? Turn right here."

He obeyed, turning the wheel sharply to make the turn just in time.

"Turn left at the next block," she instructed him.

"Why? Where are we going?"

She shook her head. "I'll tell you in a minute."

"What's going on?" He glanced in the rearview mirror. "Are we being followed?"

"No. Just—turn right after that gas station, okay? You'll see when we get there."

Jane followed her instructions, and fifteen minutes later they pulled up to a four-story walk up in Daly City.

She went inside and started climbing the stairs, leaving him no choice but to follow. She climbed straight to the top floor and down to the end of the hall. She knocked on the door of apartment 405. Jane, hovering by her elbow, reflected that he didn't like surprises nearly as much when he was on the receiving end of them. Especially when Lisbon's life was at stake.

A moment later, the door swung open, and Jane blinked.

Madeleine Hightower stood before them, her arms folded across her chest as she assessed them critically. "Hello, Teresa. Patrick. I don't suppose this is a social call?"