A/N: Once again I find myself apologising to all you lovely people. I am sorry, sorry, sorry, but I do have something of an excuse. This past week has been highly unpleasant for me. Without going into details I will say that it has caused me great distress and substantial financial loss, in combination with a mild illness. So needless to say I have not really been in writing shape. However, things are on the up now, and the chapter has finally come into being.

Enjoy!

Chapter 6

Jane kept a hand on his cell phone for the rest of the drive back, ready to grab it immediately, just in case she called. Even if Stiles had seemed fairly unruffled considering he'd just been threatened with a gun, he'd bet that Lisbon would not be the same. He could only hope that she hadn't already gone off in search of her next potential victim; it was fortunate that Stiles had been the first. Of the seven, he would be the least likely to turn her in; no doubt seeing potential to bring her into the fold of Visualize. The thought gave him a faint glimmer of hope.

She could have thrown caution to the winds completely and started with Bertram or Haffner, right in the heart of the CBI, but instead she'd picked Stiles. Well into his sixties, he'd have been by far the easiest to overpower if it had been necessary. Somewhere in her grief-stricken subconscious, there was still a bit of the level-headed Lisbon he knew and loved.

But still, the thought of her locked in a room with a man who could very well be his greatest enemy with a bevy of mindless followers at his command, chilled him like ice. She couldn't keep putting herself at risk like this. Even now, with her brother dead, and terror closing in from all sides, he suspected that she still didn't quite grasp just how much danger she was in.

With every day that passed, she grew more precious to him, and with every day he knew Red John was pulling the bowstring back a little more, ready to let the arrow fly at the opportune moment.

She wasn't at the office when they finally got there; the lamp was cold, the computer was off, and none of the stuff she'd taken to Oregon was back in place. She must have driven straight to Visualize without stopping. He wondered where she was now-hopefully at her apartment and not ruthlessly hunting down more Red John suspects.

He called her cell. No answer.

"Anything?" asked Cho as Jane hung up the phone with a sigh of frustration.

"Nothing."

He could feel tension building in his brain and his fingers. The longer they were separated, the more nervous he was becoming. He had to find her, and try and talk some sense into her before it was too late.

The bartender put down a tumbler of tequila in front of her, and she nodded her thanks. Lisbon was a stickler for following the rules, but as there was no protocol about what to do after threatening someone with death, she'd had to go with her gut on this one. And her gut had told her she needed a drink. She chose a tiny bar a little way off the beaten track. She'd stumbled on it by accident once after closing a case, and still went there from time to time when she felt like forgoing her usual haunts, like her apartment or the CBI building. After all, if Stiles decided to send the cavalry, she didn't want to make it too easy for them. But she had a strong feeling that he wouldn't do that. No doubt he would see this as a prime opportunity to recruit her into his little cult.

But was he Red John? She still didn't know. He'd borne her impromptu interrogation well enough, and answered all her questions, but then, there had never been any doubt that he was an accomplished liar, and it would have been a simple matter of telling her what he knew she wanted to hear. He made a living out of knowing the right words to say to get him out of trouble; why would he stop now?

She sipped her drink. Jane would've known. Perhaps she should have brought him with her. But then he'd have tried to stop her; no, going alone had been the right call.

On the barstool beside her, a man with dark hair and a badly-tailored suit (Jane would have keeled over at the sight of it) caught her eye, and smiled.

"Hey there," he said.

She shook her head wearily, and his face fell.

"Taken?" he asked, and she merely grunted in response, relieved when he turned away. It wasn't totally a lie. She may not be officially taken right now, but she most definitely was not available. Already, she'd developed a taste for those searing kisses she'd experienced last night, and knew that from now on, she could never be satisfied with anything less.

Along with her career and her belief system, she could now add dating to the list of things in her life that Patrick Jane had managed to ruin for her without even trying.

xxxxxxxxxxx

What was the point, Jane wondered, of people having cell phones when they didn't bother to answer them?

He was sitting in the driver's seat of his car listening to the phone line ringing fruitlessly, hoping that she would pick up and start berating him for worrying so much, but yet again the call went to voicemail and the line went dead. He hoped very much that it was just a case of her ignoring him, and not getting herself into some nightmare situation where she couldn't answer her phone. She was alone, she was grieving, and she was vulnerable. She was in no state to be matching wits with a highly intelligent serial killer with a grudge.

He tossed his cell onto the passenger seat and started the car. He would go to her apartment building and wait for her there; she'd have to come back eventually.

Out the window of CBI, the team watched as Jane's Citroen peeled out of the parking lot, and disappeared down the street.

"Do you think he'll ever tell us what's going on?" asked Grace. "You know, the whole truth?"

Never would the team claim to be as freakishly observant as their consultant, but they knew him well enough to guess that there was a little more to this than he'd told them in the car back from Oregon. Things didn't add up. When it came to Patrick Jane, it was never enough to take things at face value, though frankly, Grace had been stunned that he'd even shared that much with them.

"Doubt it," said Cho.

"Jane and the boss have always had secrets," said Rigsby, turning away from the window. "It's kind of their thing."

That was true enough, but it didn't make the current situation any less frustrating.

"Do you think Stiles is Red John?" Van Pelt voiced the question that they all were thinking.

"It's possible," Rigsby said, considering. "He's creepy enough, and he already has a whole church full of brainwashed whack-jobs to do the dirty work for him."

"Jane doesn't seem convinced though," argued Grace.

He'd been too calm when they'd been discussing the Visualize leader, and she was sure that if he were closing in on anyone, they would know it. He'd always gotten a little crazy when Red John was involved, and when he finally managed to pinpoint the serial killer's identity, she suspected he would be even more so.

"Maybe he's just trying to keep us out of the loop," Rigsby suggested. "For some stupid noble reason."

"Or because he just doesn't trust us."

Cho gave Jane less credit than the other two did. As far as he could see, they had done everything in their power to show him they could be depended on just as much as Lisbon. They went along with his crazy schemes, put their careers and their lives in jeopardy just because he said so, and yet he still held back on them. He for one found that highly insulting. But even though there was no doubt that Jane could be a conniving, manipulative asshole, nevertheless, Lisbon adored him. Cho had seen the way she looked at him long before the office pool, noted the way she seemed to light up whenever he walked into her office at the end of a long day. So, despite his personal reservations, he had no choice but to watch the consultant's back as faithfully as he did Lisbon's. He feared what would happen if Jane ended up dead at the hands of Red John. Losing her brother had been tough enough; losing him too would destroy her.

"We'll find out when he's ready," Grace decided. "He owes it to us."

Predictably, Rigsby quickly agreed with his beloved, throwing her a loving look that Cho pointedly ignored. What with Jane and Lisbon dancing around each other in the world's slowest foreplay, and Rigsby and Grace exchanging heartfelt looks across the bullpen at every opportune moment, he felt as though he were surrounded by lovesick couples.

But he kept his opinions to himself. At least one of them would be able to keep their head in the game.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon was unsurprised to see Jane's distinctive blue car parked neatly in front of her apartment building when she arrived home. She took a moment to recognize how long it had been since she'd actually come home to find someone waiting for her who cared about her. Not since Greg, so it had been a long while.

He was leaning against her front door frame, tapping his fingers impatiently as she approached.

"What are you doing?" she asked him.

He observed her for a moment, eyes scanning her body from head to toe. Once he'd satisfied himself that she was apparently unharmed, a look of deep relief appeared briefly on his face before he went back to eyeing her sternly with a strange mixture of affection and irritation, as though she were a misbehaving child. Kind of the way she was always looking at him.

"I could ask you the same question. Threaten anyone with your gun today, or was the phone call I received from Bret Stiles just a figment of my imagination?"

"He called you?"

She couldn't say she was really surprised at this information. Jane and Stiles had always had a fairly hostile relationship, hidden under a shroud of cordiality, and she knew that the older man wouldn't have been able to resist getting under Jane's skin with a tidbit like this.

"Be thankful it wasn't the cops. But he seems to think you would benefit more from a membership to Visualize. Who knows? A little casual brainwashing and he might be able to stomp the crazy right out of you."

She ignored this little jibe, fishing around in her bag for her house keys.

When she finally got the door unlocked, he followed her inside without invitation, and locked it behind them.

"Where have you been all day?" he wanted to know, trailing her into the kitchen where she turned on the kettle and got down two mugs from a cupboard. He handed her milk from the fridge and she proceeded to make tea for him, and a coffee for herself. "I've been calling you and calling you. And the guys have been asking questions."

"What did you tell them?"

"Just enough." He accepted the tea with a nod of thanks, and then sniffed the air. "You've been at a bar," he said. "You smell like cigarette smoke, and there's just a hint of alcohol on your breath."

She could tell that he was afraid this was going to become a recurring problem, turning to the bottle whenever things got tough. But she was not her father, and she would not let it control her like he had.

"I only had one," she said. "It wasn't like last night."

He was in mid-sip of his cup of tea but she still saw his shoulders tense up at the mention of last night.

"So this vigilante thing," he said, changing the subject. "Was it a spur-of-the-moment idea or a thought-out plan of attack?"

"A bit of both, I think," she said.

A tiny smile appeared on his face. "I'm supposed to be the impulsive one," he said. "And you're supposed to come running after me because you think I've done something crazy. You can't go changing everything up at this late stage. People will get confused."

She put the coffee cup down on the counter. "I had to do something," she said. "I realized that I can't get the things I want in my life until he's out of the picture." She let her eyes meet his. "And I don't want to wait forever."

She couldn't have made her meaning clearer if she'd jumped on him right then and there. The longing in her eyes said it all. Well, if he'd still been in any doubt of her feelings for him, it had been thoroughly quashed now. The idea made him feel just a little saddened. He'd never deserved to have her as a friend and he certainly did not deserve her love, but here she was, looking at him just like Angela used to all those years ago, and apparently not caring that she could do so much better.

Falling for her had always been inevitable, and he originally thought that his unrequited love would have been a nice garnish to his daily routine of self-loathing. She wasn't supposed to love him back.

"Promise me you won't do anything like this again," he said, breaking the loaded silence.

"Can't do that," she said, simply. "I'll do what it takes to get rid of the son of a bitch, and if that involves breaking a few rules, then so be it."

"Teresa, you don't want to do this," he said, sincerely. "Revenge is a hard road, and once you're on it there's no going back."

"I don't care," she said, viciously. "He killed my brother, Jane."

"And you could be next!" he snapped. "But hey, if you insist on going ahead with this crazy idea, why don't we just cut out the middleman and throw me straight back into an institution?"

She shook her head, picked up her coffee again, and rolled her eyes. "Always the showman. Don't over-exaggerate," she said.

She wondered when she'd become so blasé about the idea of her own death. Perhaps it was just another part of the revenge package, along with constant anger and paranoia.

Part of him wanted to reach out and shake her, while the other parts just wanted to pull her to him and hold her close. He didn't want her to live her life in fear, but at the same time, he didn't want her to underestimate their enemy, like she was currently doing. If nothing else, Red John must be acknowledged as a powerful opponent, and one with in-depth knowledge about the people in Jane's life he cared about. It was a very short list, and Teresa Lisbon was at the top of it.

"How does it feel to be in my position for once?" she asked. "Usually I'm the one that has to worry about you doing something stupid and impulsive, not the other way around."

"I don't know how you've done it all these years," he said, sincerely, and she smiled softly over the rim of her coffee cup.

"It hasn't been easy," she admitted.

"There must have been times that made you wonder if it was all worth it," he said.

"Frequently." She hesitantly met his eyes. "But I wouldn't take back a moment of it even if I could." She took another slow sip of coffee.

"Are you sure?"

She gave a rueful smile. "I think we've pretty much established by now that there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, Jane," she said. "I've thrown away my career for you, I've even faked my own death for you. And I'd do it again."

He could see it in her eyes. She meant every word.

He put the teacup down, stepped forward, and gathered her into his arms. She seemed to melt against him, as though all her bones and muscles had finally been given permission to not have to hold her upright anymore. He staggered a little as her body became dead weight. The exhaustion, the sorrow, the anger, it all seemed to come crashing onto her at the same time, and he backed up against the counter, as her head turned into the crook of his neck, and her arms held him tight. He looked down just in time to see her eyelids flutter, close for a moment, and then open again. He had the distinct feeling that sheer stubbornness was probably the only reason she was even still standing. Still so strong, and so brave, even when life was at its lowest ebb.

"You need to sit," he said. He felt her head move slightly against his skin, and deduced that it had been her attempt at a headshake.

"No need," she protested, weakly. "'M fine." But she allowed him to guide her over to the couch, and nestled into his arms after they'd sat down without further argument.

He could tell she was trying to fight the urge to sleep; she kept moving around, and forcing her eyes open. But this was one fight that his angry little princess was not going to win. He'd make of sure of it.

"Just relax," he said softly. "Just concentrate on your breathing. Think of nothing else."

"I know what you're trying to do," she said, sleepily. "And I won't let you. I can't go to sleep, it's not safe."

This was what their lives had come to. The bravest woman he'd ever known, nervous about going to sleep in her own home. He hated himself for being the cause of that. If only he'd done what was right by her and left her the hell alone, before he got in too deep. She might be here now, contented and relaxed, wrapped in the arms of a worthier man than him.

He smiled gently down at her. "Sleep," he whispered. "I've got you."

"I can't."

"Trust me."

It only took a few minutes for her to obey, and before long, he was sitting in silence, pulling his fingers gently through her hair, listening to her slow deep breaths and watching her chest rise and fall in time.

He vowed that he would not sleep. What was another night of insomnia, compared to watching over the wonderful, precious woman in his arms? And so he sat in the darkness and held her and felt the soothing steadiness of her heart beat. She seemed to be attuned to his movements, even in sleep, for whenever he moved even slightly, she'd shift herself around to be closer to him and let out a contented sigh, as though there were nowhere else on earth she would rather be.

A few times, she murmured inaudible words under her breath, things that obviously distressed her, for she whimpered and fidgeted until he drew her back into him and whispered tender words of comfort to her. Somehow, the sound of his voice must have filtered into her dreams because between the hours of twelve and two, she mumbled his name over and over again, and he also caught a couple of "no's" and once, something that sounded like "Don't leave."

Well, she had nothing to fear on that account. He couldn't have left her now if he'd wanted to. She was everything to him.

Around three-thirty, she spoke again, this time her dead brother's name, followed by a soft moan of pain, and hearing it made him feel like he'd been stabbed. He knew she'd been bottling up her sadness about this, but the fact that she felt she could only let it out through her subconscious made him ache for her. He found himself wondering what other horrors ravaged her dreams at night, when nobody else could hear, and then marvelled at the way she could then get up the next day and carry on like everything was fine.

He kissed her forehead tenderly, as though it might convey some of these thoughts to his sleeping partner, and whether by chance or not, her fingers, which had been resting on his chest, curled up in response.

The hours stretched on, and even though he'd lost all feeling in his left arm long ago, he didn't dare move. Somewhere in the darkness outside, Red John was waiting for them, could even now be laying the finishing touches to whatever terrible plan he had in store for them. Even here, in her apartment with the door locked, he couldn't help but feel vulnerable.

xxxxxxxxxx

The sun slowly began to rise, casting the apartment with a soft, golden glow. As the light fell upon her face, she opened her eyes, turning her head this way and that in confusion. She flushed in embarrassment at the fact that she'd essentially been using him as a pillow for the entire night, and immediately began to wriggle herself up into a sitting position.

"Good morning," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I have for a while," she said. Just for the pure pleasure of it, she closed her eyes once more and let herself savour the sun on her face, and his warm breath tickling her skin.

"I'm glad," he said. "And just for the record, on a scale of one to 'homicidal' how are you feeling this morning?"

She turned her head to look at him properly, and felt her heart melt as he smiled at her. By God, he was beautiful. And he was here with her.

"About a five," she said. "Reasonably content, but capable of inflicting mild to moderate injury if pushed."

He chuckled, and couldn't quite suppress the yawn that followed it.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked, noting the dark circles under his eyes.

"I had more important things to worry about," he said, and she felt his arms tighten around her shoulders. Apparently, she was the more important thing. She'd never felt as though she were important to him before. A useful ally, and a reliable resource, yes, but never something to be protected, cherished. She buried her face into his arm so he wouldn't see her blush as she thought about that.

He must have been petrified that she'd sneak off in the night and carry on her vigilante mission to sacrifice yet another night's worth of sleep, just when he needed to be at the top of his game.

She'd always wondered what it would be like to wake up next to him. She'd had something of a picture in her mind, the two of them entwined together in bed (always her bed, and never his for some reason) after a night of non-stop lovemaking, with the sun trickling in through the window, gently bringing them back to wakefulness. She imagined herself planting kisses all over him to wake him, before he rolled her beneath him for a round of lazy morning sex. As a rule, she'd never been the daydreamy type, but that particular image of a blissful morning after had seemed to stick into her memory. She studied the curve of his lips and the contours of his face now, and found herself wanting to kiss him again so badly it made her insides ache with longing.

"You should have slept," she said instead, gently scolding. "You need your strength."

"You need yours more," he said, matter-of-factly. "I'm not the one who's lost someone I love this week."

The reminder of James put a damper on her sense of peace with the world. Even here, in the arms of the man she'd loved for ten years, there was no dulling the stab of pain at the thought of her brother.

"I'm sorry," he said, noticing her wince.

"It's OK," she said, heaving a deep sigh. "Not talking about it isn't going to make it any less real."

She felt a light pressure as he kissed her temple. "This should never have happened to you," he said, and then, lowering his voice, and whispering in her ear. "I am so very, very sorry."

Involuntarily, she felt herself inch a little closer to him.

"I am too. I don't know how you handled this alone."

The only reason she'd got through the last few days was because he'd been with her every step of the way, with support, and comfort and plans of action. Someone who could really understand what she was feeling knew what to say, and what to do. Even when she hadn't wanted him there. And ten years ago, he hadn't even had that much. In her eyes, it made it even more of a triumph for him to have been able to come back from it.

"I didn't handle it, really. I just sank into severe depression. I never really dealt with it."

"But you pulled yourself out of it," she reminded him. "In the end."

"Nothing motivates like blind hatred," he said, bitterly.

"Believe me, I've got a bit of that right now."

He could understand that. He could understand her feeling angry and sad and cheated and betrayed or all of them at once. It was all part of the healing process after all. Unfortunately, he had just not been able to move past that stage so far. But she couldn't live her life consumed by hatred and anger like he did, and if he could have just one thing, it would be for her to come out of this without the jaded view of the world he now held. Her unerring faith in people, and almost superhuman abilities to forgive, no matter what crime had been done her, was one of her very best traits. It was what made her a great boss, a great cop and the best friend anyone could ever have. He would hate for Red John to take that away, whether by killing her, or simply crushing her spirit.

And he wasn't prepared to lose her either way.

"I'm not sure you've ever hated anybody," he said, smiling fondly down at her. "Other than me, of course." She'd certainly told him so enough over the years.

"Tommy Volker," she said, and they both suppressed a shudder at the thought of the egomaniacal billionaire they'd put away a few months ago.

"Fair enough."

"But I could never hate anyone as much as you," she went on, with a smile, and giving him a playful shove. "Forcing yourself into my life, causing trouble on my cases, messing up my career. I ought to have shot you years ago."

"But you haven't yet."

"Consider yourself lucky," she teased, and stood up from the lounge, stretching her arms and legs out. "I'm going to take a shower."

Lucky. Well that was a matter of opinion.

He watched her pad across the room away from him, noticing her clothes were rumpled from her night on the couch. She seemed to have a kink in her neck too; from the way she let out a little hiss of pain and rubbed it with her hand. He swallowed the urge to offer to work it out for her, because he knew where that would lead.

He was tired of looking, but never touching. Tired of loving her from a distance, when he'd much rather be loving her every which way he could. He made a vow to himself that the moment all of this was over, all bets were off. They were both taking at least a month off work and they wouldn't be getting out of bed for as long as it took for him to explore every inch of her, and discover all the things that 'flipped her switch,' as it were. He had a feeling that turtleneck sweaters were just the tip of the iceberg.

As the bathroom door closed behind her he found himself wondering idly she'd mind if he joined her in that shower.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Even though she hadn't really expected him to, she couldn't quite help feeling a touch disappointed that he hadn't followed her in. In her fantasies, he'd press her up against the wall with his body, kiss her neck; she'd lose herself in the double pleasures of the hot water and his eager touch, and he'd bring her to ecstasy over and over again until the water started to run cold. At which point they'd simply move to the bedroom. Or the bathroom floor.

If he made love even half as well as he read minds… oh, the idea was so delicious she closed her eyes and let herself picture it as she reached for the shampoo. The bottle was close to empty, so she shook it in annoyance to release the last of the product. A vaguely lemonish smell reached her nose, and she remembered that this bottle had been a Christmas gift from James. In previous years, he'd always presented her with a gift certificate on Christmas and birthdays, but last year, she'd teased him about always taking the easy way out and being too lazy to buy her a proper gift. In response, he'd given her a large gift basket full of shower gels and soaps, which seven months later, she was still working her way through. But at least he'd tried.

To her dismay, the sizzling images of herself and Jane surrounded by swirling steam were replaced by a memory of James' triumphant face as he'd dumped the oversized basket into her arms.

"Try and call me lazy this time, Reese," he'd said.

It occurred to her now that she'd never properly thanked him for going to such an effort, rolling her eyes and making some witty rejoinder as she'd shoved the basket into the bathroom cupboard, and she couldn't help but hate herself a little. She should have been more appreciative, but she'd been so busy worrying about Jane spending yet another holidays alone, her mind hadn't been fully on the job.

She'd never even told her brother about her feelings for Jane, she realized. He'd come up in conversation on the phone a lot, and James had even accused her of having a crush on her consultant once or twice, but she'd never admitted to him how deep the attachment was. Perhaps because she'd still been having trouble admitting it to herself, and somehow she'd always thought there would be more time.

It was a sobering thought. Patrick and James, two of the most important people in her life had never met or even spoken to one another, and now, they never would.

She stepped back under the water spray to rinse the shampoo from her hair, shutting her eyes so it didn't get in them. But even as she did, she felt a tear squeeze it herself out from under her eyelid and make a steady track down her cheek.

She brushed it away irritably, and tried to tell herself that it was just an errant drop of water from the showerhead, but then came another one, and another after that, and from deep within her a guttural cry rose up and escaped before she could stop it.

She looked nervously towards the door, praying that Jane hadn't heard, but now she had started, she found she just couldn't stop. On one hand, she cursed herself for her inability to keep her emotions under control, but on the other, every tear felt like a gift to her baby brother, an acknowledgement that he had lived, and been loved, and was missed.

The tears mixed with the water and were washed down the drain, and still she wept for him, for Jane, for herself, and for all of them. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel the injustice of it all. She was a good person, she worked hard, she looked out for her friends and she fought crime. And what did she have to show for it? Her brother dead, the man she loved at risk and herself in mortal danger. It just wasn't fair.

Xxxxxxxxx

Teresa had been in the shower now for what was going on half an hour. Time enough for him to look through her almost empty refrigerator and decide that they'd go out for breakfast, make himself a cup of tea, and drink it in front of the morning news, cringing when Bob Kirkland appeared on the screen, spouting something about national security. He noted idly that Kirkland could benefit from some media training; he had about the same level of charisma on screen as a doorknob. God only knew what Lisbon had ever seen in him.

He had a cup of coffee ready for her, but it sat on the kitchen counter, untouched, as the shower kept on running.

Five more minutes passed and still the water pounded on, until he eventually became curious enough to walk up to the closed door and put an ear to it. With a sudden jolt, he wondered if she might have slipped and hurt herself, and was on the point of calling out to her, when he heard a sob, muffled by the water.

His first instinct was to barge right in there and comfort her, even though to his shame, he couldn't help thinking about the fact that she was naked and wet. But his common sense kicked in a few moments later, and told him that she needed this. All week he had been waiting for her to let her guard down, let herself cry, and now, finally, she had. And if she only felt she could do it in private, who was he to deny her of it?

He was going to let her have this. Even if it killed him to hear her in this pain.

So he fixed himself a fresh cup of tea, got himself into a place on the couch that would allow him to see as soon as the door opened, and waited.

xxxxxxxxx

They arrived at the CBI a little later than usual, but seeing as the whole building was aware of Agent Lisbon's recent trauma, nobody gave them grief. Jane noticed a great many sympathetic looks coming her way as they passed through the corridors, and one or two people looking as if they would have liked to step forward and offer their condolences, but nobody quite dared. Lisbon seemed not to notice them, walking past the onlookers with her head held high, but Jane caught the eyes of a few of them and nodded a thanks on her behalf.

Lisbon had always been well loved at the Bureau, he knew, and as the years had passed and their unconventional partnership had run its rocky course, the respect of her fellow colleagues had grown. She'd always had it in her head that people would think less of her for sticking by him when others wouldn't, but he'd found that the case was the exact opposite. She was idolised by the younger agents, respected by the senior agents, and adored by her team. And she was so focused on her work that she didn't see it.

When they reached the bullpen, they found the team at their desks, Grace tapping away at her computer, Rigsby painstakingly adding rubber bands to a ball and Cho with his nose in a book. At the sight of his boss, Rigsby accidentally let fly one of the bands, which whizzed across the room and hit the new intern from the mailroom on the ear.

"Ow!" she shrieked, looking around the room. "Who did that?"

"Nice shot," deadpanned Cho, as Rigsby sheepishly sunk down in his seat, an action that achieved very little due to his height.

With an irritated sigh at the guy's immaturity, Grace turned to the boss and Jane.

"Hey Lisbon," she said. "A-"

"I'm fine, Grace," Lisbon cut in. "Seriously. I appreciate what you guys have done for me, but it's time to get back to business. And that goes for all of you."

The three other agents exchanged looks of mingled puzzlement and concern.

"Uh, that's great boss," said Grace, nervously. "But I was just going to ask you if you knew that Reede Smith was in your office?"

"What?" said Lisbon and Jane, together.

Grace looked uncertainly from one of them to the other. "He got here about ten minutes ago. Said he wanted to talk to you."

After shooting a quick glance in the direction of her office, Lisbon pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, pulled her shoulders back, and drew herself up to her full height.

"Thank you Grace," she said. "I'll see him now."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Jane whispered under his breath as the two of them strode towards her office. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"You mean, do I think I'm going to hold my gun to his head and demand to know whether or not he's Red John?" she snapped. "What kind of an idiot do you take me for, Jane? We're in the middle of the CBI for God's sake, I'm not a complete moron, unlike some consultants I might mention."

"You don't have to do this," he said, swerving around Cho's desk, and ignoring her previous jab. "You can make up some excuse…get Cho to take the meeting. I don't think you're in the right frame of mind to be talking to him right now."

"I'll be fine," she said, dismissively.

"I'm not sure 'fine' is the word I'd use to describe the woman who just spent nearly an hour crying her eyes out in the shower this morning!" Jane retorted in a harsh whisper.

Lisbon pulled up short a few feet away from her office, with an expression on her face as though he'd just slapped her.

"You knew?" she asked, seemingly horrified.

"I heard you," he replied, in a gentler tone, regretting his previous forcefulness.

He honestly hadn't meant to bring it up; he'd been fully intending to let her keep her secret. He loved this woman to the end of the universe and back, but when she got her mind set on something she could be nothing short of insufferable, and in his frustration, things tended to slip out.

"And so now you think I'm going to dissolve into tears in the middle of a conversation with Reede Smith," she said, accusingly. "Or maybe just fall to my knees and wait for the handsome prince to ride in on his noble steed and rescue me from the evil fire-breathing FBI agent."

"If he turns out to be Red John, fire-breathing is the least of your worries," Jane shot back. "All I'm saying is that you can't go in there with your emotions all over the place. You have to calm down."

"Fine," she snapped, glaring at him, and taking a series of exaggeratedly deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself, closing her eyes and he could tell, trying very hard not to give in to her temptation to punch him in the face. The deep breathing seemed to help, and when she finally opened her eyes again, she was a lot calmer.

"Satisfied?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or do you want me to throw in that sun salutation as well?"

"I was always more a fan of the downward facing dog," he replied, unable to resist, and saw her grin, though she stifled it just as quickly.

"Pig," she said. "And as if you'd know anything about yoga anyway. You can't even grasp two of the most basic fundamentals; sitting still, and shutting the hell up."

And with that, she marched past him into her office and shut the door in his face.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Agent Smith," she said pleasantly, as the heavyset man got to his feet when he'd been sitting on the couch.

"Not a problem, Agent Lisbon," he said. "I appreciate what a difficult time this must be for you." He held out a formal hand. " On behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, our condolences."

Lisbon thanked him, but couldn't quite bring herself to shake his hand. If he were Red John, that hand would have been used to slay her brother. She couldn't bear the thought of touching it.

"I've also," Smith went on, with a hint of a smile, "been asked by Agent Mancini to pass along his deepest sympathies, and to let you know he is available if you ever want someone to talk to," he said, rolling his eyes. "You know, if that means anything to you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she retorted, coolly.

"Just that my good friend Gabe, despite his desperate, burning desire for you, probably wouldn't be your first choice of confidante."

"Excuse me?"

Smith sighed, and ruffled the sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Look, Teresa," he said. "Mancini's a good guy but it's no secret that you are way out of his league. I mean, it was entertaining for a while, but with things the way they are now, it's gotten to become kind of sad."

"Is there a point here?" she enquired, testily.

"You and Jane are a bit of a double act these days, aren't you?" he said, and she felt ice appear in her veins. "Even more so than usual. So I told my good buddy Mancini that he may as well bow out gracefully. Though I have to say, Teresa, I can't say much for your taste."

It took all of her limited acting ability to keep her cool. She and Jane had been acting the same as they always had in the public eye; any more personal interactions between them had been kept strictly behind closed doors. Was Smith Red John? Had he been keeping tabs on them? Was he watching them?

She felt suddenly violated, as though her most intimate secrets had just been broadcast to the world on the Internet. Last night at her apartment. That night at the motel; private stolen moments where she'd let herself forget about mayhem and serial killers and give in to her most desperate fantasies. They were supposed to be moments just between herself and Patrick, not entertainment for some psychopathic voyeur.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said at last, using supreme effort to keep her voice steady.

Smith shrugged. "Play it like that if you want to," he said. "But there's no way to hide what you two have been up to."

On that note, he produced the paperwork he'd brought in, a form to facilitate a transfer of some evidence from the CBI lock-up to the FBI facility. Scrawled her signature without reading it and then Smith was on his way, with a sly smile and a wink as he departed.

The moment he left, she sank into her desk chair, head in her hands, and the door swung open again to reveal Jane, with a cup of coffee for.

"Well, looks like Smith escaped without the bullet to the skull. What was he looking so smug about anyway?" he wanted to know, setting the cup down beside her.

She looked up at him and he was surprised to see her face pale and her eyes blazing angrily.

"The bastard's been watching us, Jane."

Jane snorted, "Who?"

"Red John."

A/N: That's all from me for now. The very wonderful Donna will be bringing you the next instalment soon.