A/N lyrics, "Swallowed In the Sea" by Coldplay. I highly recommend listening to "Fix You" as well…and "Wonderwall," but not by Oasis, try the version by Jake Coco, on youtube. He has some gorgeous collaborations…they were actually part of the inspiration for this fic. Enjoy part 2! My only difficulty is who to make the ghost of the future-should it be Patrick, Red John, or Teresa, or someone else? Let me know, I'll take it as a poll in the reviews if you will! Also, I rarely, if ever, use lyrics in their actual [verse] order.

Unchained

You cut me down a tree

And brought it back to me

And that's what made me see

Where I was going wrong

You put me on a shelf

And kept me for yourself

I can only blame myself

You can only blame me

"Shall we begin?" his daughter queried with an impish grin, holding out her hand to her father.

"What tragedy will I be seeing now?" Patrick asked sarcastically.

"You tell me dad," she said suspiciously. He sighed warily.

When he blinked, she'd transported him to a comfortingly, familiar scene; he was within the confines of Lisbon's office. She looked as she did presently, wavy dark hair and all, poring over case files.

"So you're my ghost of Patrick's Present, then?" He mumbled wryly.

"If you want to call me that, so be it dad. All I know is this is what you need to see," Charlotte said with an eyebrow raised, waving him into the space with a petulant shrug.

He sat on the couch he'd bought for Teresa awhile back, staring unabashedly at her lovely face bowed over the constant stream of paperwork, most of it caused by his antics.

"She's become as bad as you, you know. She doesn't sleep, she practically lives here. She's slept on this couch about as much as you sleep in a disgusting, dusty attic," she paused. "You really need new digs, dad, seriously, it's just creepy."

He laughed, but shook his head. "So why am I in the present then, wouldn't the past or future be more…I don't know, important? What is there to learn watching Lisbon do paperwork?"

"You're still not getting the point of your trip, are you dad? You think pushing her out of your life is a good thing, that it will keep her safe? It's not going to, dad. You're hurting her, so much. Have you even stopped to ask how she is, if she's okay? She's become as obsessed as you."

Patrick whipped his head around at that. "How so?"

Charlotte nodded her head towards the file Lisbon held. "Take a look. It's not paperwork that's keeping her up at night."

He stood, walking around behind her desk and leaning over her shoulder. She held a picture of Lorelei's body. He knew she was drawing dark comparisons, uncanny in their image but utterly different in soul. The dead woman would never compare to her. He realized, also, that she kept glancing at a photo of her brothers, and then down to the document she was currently penning.

He couldn't tell what it was, until she moved to stand, to swipe her eyes. The document had water droplets that smeared the black lettering, but he nearly knocked over her pencil holder when he realized what it was.

"It's a Will. Why…" he trailed.

"She's been thinking 'bout it for awhile now. Lorelei's death pushed her to do it, she knows she running out of time. She's written letters to the team, to her brothers and Hightower and Minelli too. The only one she hasn't written is to you, dad. She doesn't know how to say what she wants to say without hurting you."

He felt the water building behind his eyes. His unshakeable Teresa was utterly, completely afraid.

"She's literally looking down at her own death dad. She's scared and you've left her high and dry."

"I'm protecting her!"

"No you're not—you're being mean, there's a difference!"

"Charlotte, you may be my daughter, and you may be dead but you will not be smart with me!"

Charlotte stomped her foot angrily. The scene vanished. They stood in Lisbon's house. Another familiar, comforting scene. He'd stayed here, slept on her couch on more than one occasion since his grand return.

He felt jarred. His daughter was not nearly as soothing and gentle as his wife, something she had picked up from him, no doubt. Lisbon was unlocking her front door, he realized.

She tossed her keys to the side table, dropped her bag of files on the ground without preamble. He followed her to the kitchen, where she stood in the dark, staring into the fridge as if it held the answers she was searching for.

Nothing edible resided in her fridge. He winced. All he could see was half a gallon of old milk, three eggs bobbing in the corner, butter, mustard, and an apple that had seen better days. She could take of others, but she lacked in taking care of herself. He felt a pang in his heart. He would buy groceries for her tomorrow, no matter what she said or how she lamented. Someone needed to take of her, for once, he thought sadly. No one ever had. She'd been an adult since she was nine. That was a lot to put on a child. Even more on a grown up. She may have been better for it, but it did not excuse her vanished childhood. He knew well what that did to one's soul.

He wanted, desperately, to touch her, reach out and hug her and let her know he did care.

"She can't feel you," Charlotte said quietly, reading his mind. Of course, he remembered, she was his mind, subconscious or not. "She doesn't know you're here."

He cringed, again, as she pulled out the bottle of whiskey. It had never been opened, that was clear. She sat at her small table, the bottle taunting her. Her fists flexed.

"Did I do this? Am I that like her father? So willing to leave her behind, pretend she doesn't matter…" he asked no one. Charlotte did not know the answer to that. Only Teresa did.

He sat down across from her in the darkness.

She sniffed, biting back more tears. "God, why does he do this to me?" she whispered brokenly. "Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid," she yelled, punching the table. The bottle skittered along the surface, leaving a trail of condensation in its wake. "I hate him…" she cried, head falling to her hands as she sobbed.

After all, she had to keep up pretenses at work.

He wondered how much she cursed him when she was here, alone. How much she cried over him.

Patrick leaned forward. "I'm so, so sorry, dear Teresa. I'm a fool. I'm selfish, I always have been. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

He gently slid his hand across the table, placing it over one of her fists. Her hand relaxed at his touch. She jumped, taken aback by his unseen force. She was staring at her hand, curious.

"You said she couldn't feel me Charlotte."

Charlotte shrugged. "Maybe she's more perceptive than you give her credit for father dear?"

The curiosity did not leave Lisbon's face. She seemed startled, maybe a little dazed at his contact. He had scared her out of the kitchen, that much was sure. He knew she believed in God, angels, but ghosts…not so much.

Maybe he was in a sort of spirit-like state, allowing him to be and not be.

The invisible pair followed her up to her room. She'd left the whiskey to condensate on her table. Patrick was frustrated with the fact that she had not eaten since her meager lunch.

"Um, Charlotte, are you sure I should see this?" he asked with an eyebrow raised.

She merely shrugged. A smirk played across her lips.

Teresa appeared from her adjoined washroom, hair up, make up gone, looking ever the child, excepting for the blue, bruise like shadows under her tired green eyes. She tugged her shirt over her head, searching for her pajamas—the adorable, leg baring, old jersey, he was sure. Or hoped?

He drew in a breath as she dropped her work into a laundry bin. He wasn't staring at her like a longing man, but someone horrified of what stood before them. He could count her ribs. He could see indents that were never there before, collar bone jutting, concave stomach. She'd always been thin, but a healthy, I work out and take care of myself, thin. This was frightening.

This had been happening since he left.

"Bingo, dad."

"What?" he asked, half listening. He had not realized he'd voiced his comment aloud.

"This is what your lame disappearing act/fake breakdown has done to your friend. She was distant. She spent most of her days in an empty church. Praying for you."

He glanced at his daughter. She wouldn't lie to him. A lie would have been a comfort. This was meant to be a cruel wake up call.

"What am I supposed to do, Charlotte? How do I help her?"

"Daddy, she doesn't want your help. You're still missing the point."

Charlotte shook her head disapprovingly.

Teresa had crawled under her covers. He noticed the gun then. She gripped it like a child would treasure a teddy bear. Her other hand toyed with the gold cross she wore so resolutely. He couldn't help twisting the gold band on his left hand.

"What is she whispering?" he asked carefully.

He moved to sit next to her bedside. Her eyes were wide open and unblinking. As if she would vanish.

"…for Jane, please. I know he's selfish and desperate for revenge, but please look out for him. I have a bad feeling, I guess, that I won't make it out of this. I've always known, I think, some way or other. If I don't make it, let him be okay, let him move on. Don't let him dwell on me. He shouldn't, I know he won't. Just let him be happy. Give him some kind of justice, for me, for his family? If I'm gone tonight, let him be safe. I know, deep down, there's love in his heart…even if it's not for me, let it be for someone…" she trailed off, never letting the cross go.

"She says that every night. You know?"

"Yea…I can see that."

Charlotte wanted to smack her father. "She loves you dad. When will you admit that you know she loves you? And don't try to deny it dad, that you love her too. You are the most exhausting couple to watch, ever, I swear!"

He didn't move. He wanted to stay in the moment forever.

"I can't Charlotte. Not until…"

"Blah, blah, Red John, I know dad! We get it, kill our killer, get your revenge, and then what? Marry her in a jail cell? Really? That's gonna be a pretty awkward honeymoon. I can see the headlines, The Cop and The Crook."

"If I get involved with her, she's as good as dead."

"She's been a target since she took the case dad. Since she realized she cared about you. Since you fake shot her and told her you loved her! Teresa will always be a target, if not from Red John, then another crazed criminal, daddy. Let it go. You and Cho and Grace and Rigsby…they're all in the same deep water as her."

Charlotte was becoming as agitated and exasperated as Lisbon was so often with him. He chuckled at that.

"Now what?" he asked his daughter.

"Now…we stay for a little while longer. As far as the present, this is it."

"Do you watch over her Charlotte? The way you talk…"

Her smile was small. "When I'm not looking out for you…yes. I like her. She's…different, and good. She's not untainted daddy, she's had her fair share of darkness. She knows and understands it…you need to talk to her…"

"I do…don't I?"

He looked down at the woman that loved him more than he knew. She'd drifted off to sleep. Something she probably had not done in days. Or months, really. Because of him and his arrogance and greed and selfish desires.

He moved a strand of hair from where it had drifted to catch on her lips. His thumb moved absently over her pink lips.

Her eyes danced under veiled lashes. Her forehead knit and bunched into little worried lines. "Jane…?" she whispered sleepily.

He didn't pull his hand away. Charlotte watched carefully. She kept vigil over the woman more than she would let her father know.

The truth was, she needed more guardian angels than her father did.

"Daddy, we have to go," she whispered.

He nodded. The scene with the beautiful, slumbering form of Teresa Lisbon faded away like a twisted, melancholy dream. He was returned to his red-smiley-faced room. He blinked, but no one greeted him. Not his beautiful daughter, not his divine wife.

Nobody.

He was all by himself within the confines of his darkness.

Alone.

And I could write it down

Or spread it all around

Get lost, and then get found

Or swallowed in the sea…