A.N.: On what is the fifth anniversary of my last update on this story, I've decided to try and finish off the final three chapters. If there's anyone still out there, I hope you enjoy. Please let me know if you did. These characters are as wonderful as ever. X

J.J.

In hindsight and at a safe distance from Sacramento, and sitting in his new office at Internal Affairs with the SFPD, J.J. could probably now admit to having been slightly harder on Jane, and the CBI as a whole, than he had needed to be at the time. Granted, it had turned out there had been moles, conspiracy and rife corruption throughout that organisation, but there'd always been something infuriating to him about that team particularly, something which niggled away just under the surface, always threatening to rear its head in his interactions with them. And so he had watched the CBI. Serious Crimes Unit with a curious detachment over the years he'd been involved with them. It has occurred to him since leaving that perhaps it had been naught but a guarded envy in question.

When J.J. had joined law enforcement that had been the ideal, to be part of a team that needed him, who would defend him and would have his support. But it had just never happened that way for him, for whatever reason, and he had gotten used to working alone. He'd moved on past that idea long before he had gotten involved with the CBI, and probably just as well – the five of them had already been a solitary unit by then. All split up now, of course.

He'd never seen another team like them. Patrick Jane was something else indeed, but it was the way Jane had amalgamated himself into their group, when he himself never could, with any group of people he'd worked with; it was that which had fascinated him; how they had become one. It said something about that team, and truth be told he was not sure if it was good or bad. Credit where it was due to Lisbon; as Jane had been recognised as an extraordinary talent in the CBI, she certainly deserved credit for being the one to control and temper that talent – and credit had been given to her, if not quite as much as she deserved, probably due in turn to Jane's more negative influences. She orchestrated her unit like the musical conductors he enjoyed so much, pushing for high standards, bringing out their best. She had been the type of leader he'd always imagined himself working well under, but alas, it was not meant to be.

Retirement had been a disappointment, as had the career he had once idealised for himself. Maybe if he had had a family, or perhaps even a hobby, things might have been different, but as it was the evenings were too long as were the mornings, the nights.

There's only so much music one can listen to. There's only so far one can walk a dog. These days he walks his little dog every evening until it is no longer fit for much more.

He looks at the notepad in front of him. A handwritten message from one of the SFPD receptionists, detailing a missed call. Wayne Rigsby. Now what could he want? He's avoiding it, but what he's hiding from he remains unsure – perhaps himself. A move to San Francisco has been a needed change. If he's being honest with himself, which he always tries to be, he has little emotional attachment to this place. He has his memories, some of which he'd rather forget, he's sure, as he moves edges closer nearer to older age. An engagement with Rigsby, a change to something else, however big or small would pass the time at least.

He has always been a thinker, and now in this moment he considers what might be waiting on the other end of the phone. He's heard on the grapevine that Jane is back in the country. Lisbon won't be long making her way to him, he's sure. More's the pity – he's long thought she'd be better off rid of him. Cho, Van Pelt and Rigsby himself, he's not sure. Could Rigsby be looking into the possibility of a move to San Francisco? He's sure Sacramento is done with them now. He finds himself thinking back then, lost in thought, reflecting on the moment the big news had broken.

He leaves his office at 11 a.m. as he does every morning and heads to the staff area's kitchen for his daily coffee. On entering the space it becomess clear that something is up. Three of his colleagues (in name only, having yet integrated fully with them) are gathered around the television secured to the corner wall and are watching a news broadcast. He feels himself glad of their distraction and is ready to move away from them in the direction of the coffee machine. Just then, without planning it, on a whim, he cocks his head around to get a view of the screen and it's then he sees the newsline running along the bottom of the screen: Sacramento breathes a sigh of relief with death of serial killer known as Red John. Again and again, on a never-ending loop, running along the bottom of the screen. He is at the screen then, unconscious of having moved at all, standing alongside these people he doesn't really know. Eyes glued to the screen, taking it in. Red John dead. He feels as though he should have been informed. Then the man himself is there, on-screen, looking back down at him.

"Jane" he says, uttering aloud the name without intent.

The people around him notice him then, turn to him, return their attentions to the screen and yet do so making room for him too. He has done it then. J.J. had started to think this day would never come.

"I don't believe it." He's been talking again, again garnering attention from those in his surroundings.

He feels a hand on his arm then and looks up to see a fellow worker – Bill, looking at him with a piqued interest and – concern?

"You came from Sacramento, yeah, J.J.? That your gang?"

Eyes on him. Eyes all on him. Not hostile, but curious, looking at him, this new and yet older man, reconsidering, perhaps.

"Yes."

He' leaves them hanging without meaning to. He's surprised to hear a pride in his voice.

"Yes, Bill. Worked with them back in Sac. The CBI. With Jane, and Lisbon. Teresa Lisbon. And the others – Cho,-"

They're looking at him. He's got their attention and so he keeps talking. "They've been chasing Red John for years. Jane, him, there on the news. His wife, daughter – you know. There were a few close calls for us over the years now. There were times we thought.. still."

He stops then, his voice failing after he hears himself say "we".

He trails off and with a deep nod to his listeners, returns to the privacy of his office then, his head full of "we". A shame and embarrassment creep over him. Has he the right? He sits down at his desk and stares into space. There's an irony that in those moments talking about the CBI he has felt more comradery between his new colleagues than ever before. A fierce loyalty has come up from nowhere to make itself felt. The memories are still flooding in: a farewell embrace with Lisbon, a morbid deal with Jane, an extravagant piece of acting just because. Rigsby. Rigsby who he had chased accusing him of revenge, knowing what was waiting for him locked away at home. How Jane, with revenge now achieved had protected and respected his. He couldn't be a hypocrite. They all have their similarities.

He has become aware since their last interaction of certain similarities between them, similarities he had never recognised before, while dealing with them in the everyday. Distance has given clarity. He had been somewhat surprised by Jane's behaviour following the break-in and blackmail of that damned Tupperware, Jane's keeping mum about the delicate situation surrounding his own personal revenge. He supposes he has to give him that, though he is under no illusions – although they'd become acquaintances, unlikely comrades in their individual searches for personal gains for revenge, he is quite sure Jane's main original interest in him had been for his own gain – whether sensing the possible opportunity to gain a favour from him or to gain once and for all the upper hand between them, or simply to satisfy some curiosity he is not sure, but it was not to gain a friend – Jane had plenty enough of them in his ever faithful CBI: Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt and of course Lisbon.

J.J. has long admired Lisbon, her calm and control, her perilous loyalty to her team. He remembers words spoken to her long ago, far away from here. He had noted aloud her dedication to her team and hoped he had managed to keep the envy he feels out of his voice.

Had they been friends, J.J. considered, or simply stepping stones to his revenge to Jane himself, J.J. wonders. He has been in Jane's position, it is hard to know. He wonders if they had known where they stood in relation to Jane. He wonders did Jane know himself.

But then he remembers Jane's words to him. He has never been a puppet he had said. Never a puppet to him.

He supposes, despite the years' thoughts that had come before, they had been a team, of sorts.

He sits for a long time, considering.

He has no coffee that morning.

The thought of crossing paths with any of them fills him in equal parts with both dread and delight, or at least as close as delight as he is willing to admit to. He'll consider this surely, but if anyone asks he'll shrug these thoughts away - he doesn't quite like the idea of others knowing he holds a certain admiration for how that peculiar unit works.

He thanks his lucky stars he has had nothing to do with the CBI since. Granted, if their paths would cross again he did not know, but if they did he was sure it would be thrilling. He'd love to have the upper hand, to say no, to decline the drama they inevitably seem to bring, but the truth is it's been too long and in this case even his pride won't prevent him from saying yes. There's also the small matter of a favour owed to Jane. That would mean trouble. But then again, they always did seem to be followed by trouble either way.

They could be the death of him.