A/N: Hello! Long time, no update! I am so sorry! I've just been kinda phased out this last year, but I hope to get back to it. It has been over a year since I last opened Word to type anything! I hope you enjoy! Please rest assure that I see your reviews and I am soooo beyond appreciative. Thanks and see you soon!

Chapter one

Patrick Jane followed the nervous walk of Grace Van Pelt with unwavering eyes in the hospital waiting area at Sacro Sacred Heart. If he hadn't been literally chewing off his own thumbnail, he might have suggested she sit down and stop driving him mad. He might have even put her in a calm trance-unknowingly to her-if he hadn't felt every inch of what she was feeling and more.

"How long could it possibly take to examine someone?" Grace muttered under her breath, her patience wearing thin. "We haven't even gotten to see her! I mean...we thought she was dead!"

"That's not helpful, Grace," Jane replied softly, unable to muster anything louder than a mere whisper. "And you thought she was dead. I had no doubt she wasn't," he corrected. He felt her abhorrent statement deep in his heart where it rattled his ribcage violently.

"She didn't mean that, Jane," Rigsby offered. "She's just concerned like the rest of us."

He did not reply to that. He knew Rigsby, Van Pelt, and Cho was just as unsure and uneasy about Teresa's re-emergence as he was. But he had told them many times before that Lisbon was alive somewhere, possibly hurt, but they had given up so easily on her. There was a resentment; an almost unforgivable conflict of interest. Even in the early days, they had tried to remain positive, but he could see through their false hope and words of comfort that fell on his deaf ears.

Jane took his eyes off of Van Pelt and focused on the double doors that lead down a hallway in which the doctor took Minelli. That was damn near fifteen minutes ago, and he still wasn't back with any news. He supposed this is what bothered him-the unknown. When Minelli had called him to tell him that they found her, he hadn't specified if she was hurt or not, only that she was alive. One thing Jane knew all too well was alive did not equate to being okay.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Minelli stuffed his way back through the double doors, his head down as he approached his team, who had gathered around him like followers in a cult. His old, tired eyes fell in a line to theirs; Van Pelt's full of fear, Cho's trying to be strong, Rigsby's faintly hopeful, and then Jane's. HIs eyes, he knew, reflected pain and worry. It was much easier to disguise faces rather than eyes. The eyes were the true windows to the soul, after all.

"She's fine," he said solemnly. "Physically, she has scrapes and bruises, there is a gash on her wrists from some kind of restraints." He put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. "They're doing other tests."

"Sexual assault kit?" Grace asked, her voice hushed.

"Negative," replied Minelli, equally as quiet.

"Can we see her?" Jane asked, his mind racing a million miles.

Minelli turned to the other three detectives, a small, put-on smile highlighting the wrinkles around his mouth. "You'll be able to see her once the tests are complete, okay?" He took their disappointed faces in as they nodded. "It won't be too long, I promise."

Turning to Jane as the other three re-took their seats, his smile dropped and his face fell into the familiar frown that had graced it when he first came in.

"What's wrong?" A statement more than a question.

"She's asking for you, but before you go in there, I think you ought to know that she looks rough, Jane. Like she hasn't seen daylight in the last year or so." He shook his head slightly as if to remove the image of her from his brain. "She also has a bit of a problem remembering what happened to her or anything about her kidnapping."

"Dissociative?" Jane inquired.

"The doctors think so." He sighed heavily. "She doesn't even know the CBI disbanded. I hadn't the heart to tell her. This is a goddamn mess, Jane."

"What room is she in?" Jane asked, choosing not to tell Minelli how big of a mess it really was.

"713."

"Thanks," answered Jane, moving toward the double doors. Before he got far, though, he felt the warm hand of Minelli's on his arm, stopping him in place.

"Something happened to her, Jane. Something that we have yet to understand." He dropped his hand from Jane's arm and sighed. "You might want to slow down any ideas you may have where you want to use your…" he trailed off, shaking his head, "gift."

He said nothing as he turned away for the second time, leaving Minelli's concerned looking face behind the double doors. Minelli never really could understand that his "gift" wasn't something he could really control, and even if he could, his gift was largely devoid of working on Lisbon. But, in this instance, at this time, he would give anything to make it work.

He moved down the hall, passing by white-coats and nurses, down along the 700's printed on black plaques next to the doors. 709, 711, and finally 713. The door was slightly ajar, and a hospital security officer stood brusquely beside it, his hand on his holster. Jane flashed his CBI badge quickly at the guard, who nodded at him as he passed to enter Lisbon's room.

Upon entering, he was met with the sharp smell of plastic and metallic. Blood and tubes made his insides twitch; it was a horrific flashback to the night his family was murdered. He didn't run out of there, though. He wouldn't do that to Teresa. Instead, he moved closer to the white lump lying in the bed, tufts of brunette hair spilling over her pillow. He choked back a sob that threatened to explode from his chest, opting to reach a hand out and touch her foot instead.

A sudden jerk from the covers sent his hand reeling away, pushing hastily to his side as her body lifted itself into a sitting position, quickly whipping away strands of hair that had fallen in front of her face. When her line of vision was finally un-obscured, her green eyes fell onto his bluish-green ones, the pupils dilating further than the medication had already done.

"I'm—I am so sorry," he apologized quickly, "I didn't mean to scare you, Teresa." It was the softest his voice had ever been. It was so foreign to him but sounded comforting.

"Jane!" It was a rush of relief, exhaustion, and pure emotion. She smiled, but the cuts on the corners of her mouth prevented it from being anything more than minuscule. "You came." She winced and dropped the smile.

He stepped forward slowly, realizing with agony that she was still in quite a bit of pain. He did not touch her; he was aware that she was being hyper-vigilant. Touching her shouldn't have scared her so badly with all the pain and sedation medication being administered. It was an auto-response to touching—he suspected deep PTSD. He'd have to tread lightly with her.

"Ten million men couldn't keep me away," he told her softly, a smile spreading across his face. "It's so good to see you, Teresa."

"It's good to see you, too, Jane," she replied softly, relaxing a little as she watched him take the chair next to her bed. "I didn't think I was going to see you again at all."

Jane sighed. "I would have found you," he told her matter-of-factly. "I've been looking since you went missing."

"You have?" She was slurring; a side-effect of the medication.

"I have," he assured her. "You scared the hell out of me and the team."

She looked away from him, taking the opportunity to find a particularly loose thread amongst the fabric that covered her body. He suspected she was ashamed she made them all worry. He didn't reassure her; he knew it wouldn't help. Instead, he waited for her to turn back to him and he smiled widely at her.

"What?"

"I'm just amused."

"Oh?" she answered. "Why is that?"

Ah! The sarcastic tone hadn't yet faded with the medication threatening to lull her into sleep. Good. He always believed that humor was an exceptionally useful tool for people who've been through trauma. It was a skill he had in his repertoire but seldom used anymore.

He shrugged. "I thought you'd be bossier." He waved a hand nonchalantly in the air. "You know…sending doctors and nurses fleeing because they fussed over you too hard or something." A chuckle escaped him as he lowered his waving hand.

She made a noise that sounded to Jane like a mix of a chuckle and a snort. "Believe me, I'm grateful for the human interaction." That was said a lot sadder than he was expecting, and it wrenched his heart. "I was going crazy wherever I was."

He sighed deeply, watching her as she shook her newly-shampooed hair. "You don't remember anything, Teresa? An accent or maybe even a tattoo?"

"Not really. I mean…" she scrunched up her face as if she were trying to will herself to remember something. "I don't recall anything useful. Damn it!" she said, her body hunching in defeat. "Why is everything so fucking blank?!"

He had heard Lisbon curse before, but only when she was backed into a corner about something. She must have seen the semi-surprised look on his face because she sighed and frowned, ghosting an 'ouch' as her sore lips slipped downward.

"It's okay, Lisbon," he assured her. "It's probably just the trauma of it all. Just relax." He really didn't need to say that; he could see the sedatives working on her, her eyes closing and opening like two blinking lights. "Maybe I should leave you to rest."

She did not answer, so he rose in his chair. Her eyes were closed now, a lock of her hair pushing across the pale skin of her forehead. He reached over as if to brush it away with his hand, but thought better of it.

"Sleep well, Teresa," he replied. "I'll be back later."

It wasn't until he had almost reached the white double doors that he heard the blood-curdling screaming coming from back the way he came. He turned around on his heels and sped off in the direction of the screams – Lisbon's room.

It was nearly midnight when the gasoline spread across the aged wood, making the enclosed area smell pungently acidic as it soaked into the slats and floor of the small cabin. Every last surface was wet with the foul liquid, including the tools and chair that stood in the center. It was no longer needed; the place had served its purpose, and then some.

They sat the gas can on the floor and reached into their front pocket, opening the small box of matches and flicking it against the flint on the side of the box. They watched greedily as the light danced to and fro on the end, ready to destroy any and all evidence for them.

With a quick flick of the wrist, the match flew across the room and landed on the coated floor, an ignition of fire spreading immediately in the small cabin. They watched it burn just for a moment before being interrupted from outside.

"Come on!" the voice commanded, "they'll see this all the way from Malibu if we don't get outta here!"

"I'm coming!" they replied, taking one last glance at the flames etching up against the walls.

They got in the car, at last, the dirt kicking up as they sped from the burning cabin behind them. Neither talked for a while until the last reddish-gold tint of the fire disappeared behind them.

"You know what we have to do next, don't you?" the driver said.

"Yeah," the passenger replied, "I do. How long do we gotta wait?"

The driver laughed. "Not long. Soon. When she's out of the hospital."

Neither said anything more. The next part of their plan was already set in motion. They only had to wait for Teresa Lisbon to let them know when to enforce it.