As predicted, Rich was ballistic when Dove gathered everyone and told them the news.

"You still want us to wait?!" he shouted at her. "Just sit back and wait while he gets his life back?!"

"I wasn't thinking of it that way, but now that you mention it, that sounds like a good idea," Dove said coolly.

"Oh, well, sure, let's let him get his life back, then," Rich said sarcastically. "Wait for him to get remarried, father another child-"

"The more you talk, the more I like the sounds of that idea," Dove told him.

Rich blinked. "What - I - you - you want that?" he exclaimed.

"Tell me, I'm curious," Dove said in reply, "what do you want to do, Rich?"

"Kill the bastard!" Rich snarled.

"And what do you think that will accomplish?" Dove asked.

"Wh-?" Rich shook his head, confused by her question. "It would avenge all the insult and injury he did to RJ!"

"And is that all?" Dove asked pointedly.

Rich's blinked.

Dove sighed. "Rich, I can't help but think that your reaction might be based in part on jealousy," she said. "With Patrick Jane dead, you could have Saint all to yourself, yes?"

"It is not like that," Rich asserted.

"Is it true you slept with her?" Dove countered.

"I - you -!" He waved his finger in a violent, albeit vague, gesture. "That is not relevant," he finally managed. "This has nothing to do with Saint!"

"Oh doesn't it?" Dove asked sarcastically. She folded her arms. "I'm sorry, but I know you a little too well to believe that."

Rich glowered at her. "I just want to avenge - and serve - RJ," he told her. "If that means killing Patrick Jane before the woman that RJ loved marries him or whatever, I'll do it. RJ wouldn't want her to be with that moron."

Dove sighed and took a step closer to him; she had taken him aside to hear his tirade in private, but some people might still be listening in.

"Rich, I'm going to tell you a secret," she said in a low voice, "and I need you to promise me on Red John's grave that you will never tell anyone, not even other friends."

"Sure," Rich said, a bit taken aback. "I swear on RJ's grave, I won't tell a soul."

Dove nodded. She glanced around nervously, leaned in a bit closer, and confessed in a very soft voice, "I was in love with RJ."

Rich's sharp intake of breath was more than enough of a response.

"I know, I know!" she said quickly. "Please don't comment. But what I want you to know is that I understand how you feel."

Rich blinked.

"I thought that RJ just…didn't want a life partner, never would," she told Rich. "I didn't think he could love, at least not in that way." Her expression darkened. "And then Saint happened," she said bitingly. "My Dear Little Saint this, My Dear Little Saint that - you heard how he couldn't shut up about her! I was the first of us, I'd been by his side the longest, I loved him and would have given my soul and more for him, and I was just a friend; but he was infatuated with the woman who was in charge of the investigation to take him down, a woman who hated his guts! Can you imagine how I felt?"

Rich deflated slightly, his sheepish expression more than answer enough.

"But I don't want her dead," Dove said; "never have, probably never will. Because I can't control who RJ loved, any more than you can control who Saint loves." She gave him a look. "Do you understand?"

Rich sighed, then nodded. "I understand," he said grudgingly.

"Besides, if there's one thing to be learned from RJ, it's that death is far from the worst punishment that can be exacted on a person," Dove added, cracking a bit of a sinister smile. "Let Jane get his life back, let him build a new world, let him find happiness, and then take it from him. That's what RJ would do, and that's what we're probably going to do. In the meantime, stand down. Do I make myself clear?"

Rich nodded again. "Yes, ma'am."

~o~

The trip home was a blur for Jane; he was through his front door without the faintest memory of his frantic rush to get home. He was panting, that much he knew.

What the hell just happened?

He put his face in his hands. Did he just kiss Lisbon? Like, actually kiss her? Did that actually happen? How could that have possibly happened? Did that happen?

Well, you ran home for some reason, whispered a treacherous voice at the back of his mind, a voice he pretended not to recognize as his own, as he ran his fingers through his hair.

He shook his head. No. No, no, no. Freedom was one thing, but this…this was too much. He'd had a family once, had his soul mate, his life partner, a life…

"Find a woman to love…Start a family…"

"When you're dead."

He tried to push that particular memory aside. He'd made enough of a mess with Kristina…

Kristina, who had only wanted to hurt him, remind him of his past on Red John's behalf…Thinking of her was painful now, but he couldn't not - she was his one slip in his devotion to his family.

But it's time to move on with your life, that same voice told him, and he couldn't ignore it.

"No," he said out loud. "No, this will not happen."

~o~

Jane couldn't sleep that night, instead pacing back and forth all over the place. He tried lying down sometimes, but always immediately stood up again. He felt…dirty, like he'd done something horrible, something unforgivable. A small part of him wondered if maybe he hadn't done anything wrong at all, but he refused to listen to that corner of his mind. No. He had one family. Yes, they were dead and gone, and yes, he'd had his wedding ring destroyed, and yes, he'd said he would move on with his life, but he couldn't just forget them!

Then, after several hours of pacing, something else occurred to him:

Did I turn down the BAU and stay here because of Lisbon?

And with that thought, he had absolutely had enough. He had to move, had to do something.

He was out the door before he even asked himself where he was going.

~o~

Brett Partridge was up late that night, watching the news. At least it didn't look like Patrick Jane was any less stupid now than he had been before.

He still couldn't believe it. Red John, more than human, impossibly smart, powerful, strong, resourceful…gone. And he never got to see his work in person. Twice, he had thought he would, and twice, he'd had his dream shattered by the ever-so-gifted Patrick Jane.

He sighed. Being one of Red John's pets - the last of them, now, if he understood correctly - had been a lot of fun, but he'd really wanted to see his hero's work in the flesh. And now he never would. Red John had never skimped on the gory details of his kills, but Brett wished, so much, that he could actually picture it, have a real visual reference for when he fantasized…

Suddenly, there was a knock on his door. Confused, he turned off the TV and answered it.

Standing outside his home was a man he had never met.

"Hey, pet," the man said; "er, I mean, Brett."

Brett blinked. "Do I know you?" he asked, confused.

"No. But I know you, or at least of you," the man replied. He smiled and held out a hand. "Rich," he introduced himself. "I'm one of RJ's friends."

Brett shook his hand, nodding thoughtfully. "So," he said, "one of you finally decided to come and see me. I was expecting the new boss lady, whoever she is…"

"You've never met Dove?" Rich asked, apparently surprised.

Brett shook his head. "I never met any of you," he replied; "RJ never even told me any of your names - except for Dove, obviously, but he didn't tell me anything about her." He shrugged. "RJ just told me you guys existed; I was never meant to be part of the network."

Rich nodded. "May I come in?" he asked.

"Please," Brett said, opening the door wider. As Rich passed him, he said, "You know, I'm a CSI, but I never did get to see RJ's work in person." He closed the door. "I saw smiley faces drawn in blood - twice - but both were copycats, and never did I see the real deal." He scowled. "Patrick Jane was always the one who had the pleasure of crushing my dream," he muttered.

"So you're not too fond of Jane?" Rich asked in an odd tone of voice.

"I hate the bastard," Brett spat. "I know you're not supposed to shoot the messenger, but he at least could have been nicer about it."

Rich smiled. Perfect.

~o~

The sky was just starting to brighten with pre-dawn light when Patrick Jane walked through the cemetery carrying fourteen red roses. He separated one from the bundle and set it down in front of his daughter's grave, then knelt in front of the tombstone that marked his wife's resting place.

"I'm sorry," he whispered out loud. He knew it was stupid, pointless, all of it, but…

He set down the bouquet. Thirteen red roses. It's a little-known fact that a dozen red roses actually symbolizes friendship, and thirteen means love.

Jane sighed. What am I doing? he asked himself.

He couldn't answer.

"You'd know what I'm doing," he murmured out loud. "You'd understand what's going on in my head, and you'd know what I should do about it. You always knew best…I never listened to you while you were alive, but if I had, things would be so different…I wish I could now…"

Suddenly, the wind picked up. He smiled wistfully, thinking of how, if he was doing a psychic reading of some sort, he would say that signified that the spirit of the departed was there, trying to speak to him.

But that would be stupid.

He reached out and put a hand on the tombstone. Why? He didn't know. He wasn't entirely sure he was even thinking at all.

No sooner did his hand grip the stone than he felt a sharp pinch on his palm. Quickly, he jerked his hand back; had he just put his hand on a rough spot or something? He reached out and ran his fingers over the spot that had bitten him.

Nothing.

Oh, no.

The wind gusted even stronger.

Oh, no no no no.

The flowers on the ground shook in the breeze.

Then, the wind caught one of the roses - just one - and carried it away. Jane watched it go dumbly.

No.

He stood, shaking his head slightly, as he had done earlier that night, trying to deny what was in front of him. Then, as he had earlier that night, he turned and ran, as fast as he could, far away from the impossible, the insane.

No.