My first priority is to say a big thank you to all who've given this story a chance. I've had some lovely reviews so far, from people whose writing I admire, and that those people even bother to review, I regard as a great compliment. My special thanks go to Louise Kurylo who has dragged me from a pit of insecurity and frustration and encouraged me to carry on.

Something I forgot to mention in the notes for the last chapter ... I hope you all got the reference to The Fugitive ... for those who don't know, it was a sixties TV show in which a man went on the run, hunting for the killer of the wife he had been falsely accused of killing.

I had thought this would be the last chapter. It isn't. Clearly Jane and Woody have the gift of the gab. I would also advise you to go back and re read the last chapter if you have the time or the inclination ... I have tidied it up a bit and corrected the multiplicity of errors caused by my bad mood ;)

I hope some more of you will forgive me for not including Lisbon in this story and give it a try. It isn't unsympathetic to her and she may well be encouraged to make an appearance in the final chapter.

Anyhow I know you all probably hated reading A/Ns, so on with the show.

Woody drained the last of his precious bourbon into his guest's now empty glass, squeezing the last drop and shaking it determinedly off the neck of the bottle, while Jane studied the golden liquid struggling to overcome the bounds of surface tension to fall and make a ripple in his tumbler. At last it fell and Jane sat quietly watching until the concentric circles stilled to become a tiny mirror. Then he picked up the glass and swilled it round and around, staring at it thoughtfully, while Woody got himself a beer from his little fridge.

"It's obvious you love her, Patrick," he observed, rooting in a draw for a bottle opener, "Why did you leave?"

Jane raised his blond head and tilted it, indicating the ledge over the hob, "It's there. Look, on the side, to your left," he advised, without expression.

Woody picked up the misplaced opener, prised the top from his bottle and came to sit down.

"That doesn't answer my question."

From opposite sides of the narrow table, two pairs of eyes locked; steady, unwavering, calm. One pair searching, analysing, waiting. The other cautious, guarded, tired.

"No. It doesn't."

"You agreed to talk. You agreed to let me help."

"Yeah, I did …" Jane swirled the drink in his glass repeatedly, faster and faster, daring it to reach the edge and spill over the top. Then he downed the whisky in one, placed the glass on the table with brisk finality and sat staring vacantly at it, "Why did I do that?"

"Because you want to?" Woody asked gently. "Because you need to?"

The man's smart, Jane thought. And persistent.

"Do I?" he shrugged, knowing full well he did both need and, surprisingly, want, but playing the stalling game anyway.

"Yeah, I think you do."

"OK." Jane smiled, wry but thin.

"So. Tell me then. Why are you running from this woman you love?"

The fragile smile disappeared and the face of a man prepared to lay his soul bare suddenly sat before Woody, eyes deep and open and childlike, slightly damp, occasionally blinking rapidly. Jane lay both arms on the table, fingers spread wide and with his body leant forward slightly and Woody sat back to listen.

"I'm scared Woody," the mentalist admitted with a voice that croaked with pain in its struggle to escape the constriction in his throat. "I'm batshit, uncontrollably, absolutely, bloody terrified to death," he wheezed. "And I can't figure a way out. "

Woody felt his own heart constrict in sympathy.

Abject fear was not the typical reason most folk gave to explain the break up of, or flight from a loving, caring, non violent relationship, or rather, it was not a reason the average man would readily admit to, so, although Patrick Jane was undeniably not an average man, his vehement declaration threw Woody for something of a loop.

He averted his eyes from the troubled man to give some breathing space, contemplating the possible cause.

This certainly was a curve ball, until, that is, he remembered something.

"Teresa's a cop?" he asked carefully, pausing for confirmation.

Patrick nodded silently.

"Dangerous sometimes?"

Again, a sad affirmation, just with those scared, haunted eyes.

"And you're afraid of history repeating itself, as it were."

"It's there every time I look at her."

And Patrick looked away to his hands, fingers trembling slightly on the table top.

Woody pondered again. "Yeah, I guess it would be. But you worked together for years, right? This can't be something you haven't had to deal with before,"

"Hmm," Jane fingered the wedding ring his wife had given him.

"Over a decade," he said, looking up and into Woody's patient gaze. "And I've always been afraid for her, tried to protect her, and believe me, for a coward that's not easy," he attempted another smile. "But …well, you would, wouldn't you. I mean any decent person would. Even me."

Woody made mental notes, but refrained from comment, merely nodding.

Jane continued. "But it got harder over the years, as we got closer, and things progressed with Red John," he shrugged, half angry, half bitter. "If you can call it progress."

He slid the empty whisky glass across the table, "I wonder if I could trouble you for a cup of tea? Whichever one. I really don't mind, the one with the valerian and chamomile was soothing," … it'll stop my fingers from fidgeting.

Woody rose. "Sure. That's cool. Don't stop talking."

Jane sat in silence for a moment, glad of a breather, trying to divert his thoughts from running back to the even darker days again. He reached out for the empty whisky glass again and spun it around idly with the tips of his thumb and index finger, making himself concentrate on the mesmerizing motion.

"And after your two years away?" asked Woody over the sound of water hitting metal as he filled the kettle. "Didn't that help?"

Jane came back into himself with a sigh.

"It wasn't too bad when I first got back. To be honest I was so thrilled to be working with her, if you could call it that," he huffed at the memory of all the times he'd wanted to work with her and had been thwarted by Fischer or Lisbon herself or just circumstances. "It was all very distracting at the time, I didn't really know how to handle things, after so long apart. All very confusing. We had that misunderstanding I told you about, so I was too preoccupied trying to be careful, not to control her, not to be secretive, which for me, I can tell you, is practically impossible. I forgot to be scared for a bit, I guess. Then, just as it looked like she was starting to relax, and I was plucking up the courage to begin moving things on, I … well, I guess I took my eye off the ball."

"The other guy?"

A blue patterned mug appeared in front of Jane and Woody rejoined him with a new bottle of beer.

"Yup. The other guy," Jane did a double take and grinned for the first time in hours. "How d'you know about him?"

"You told me."

"Nope."

Woody took his turn to grin knowingly at the mentalist.

"Well anyway it was obvious. So all your attention was on him then?"

"Yeah. I don't mind admitting, I was a mess. Played the whole thing like a novice. Told myself lies about wanting her to be happy, told myself she'd be better off with him. Hell, I even ended up telling her the same things. Stupid thing is, all the time I really thought she'd come to her senses and choose me with out even being asked. Couldn't do it. Ask, I mean. Tried, several times."

Woody saw Jane shiver and grimace as the memory of his paralysing inability to confront his feelings sent a wave of anguish writhing through his body. He wrapped his hands around the mug and had a big slurp to ground himself.

"So you were afraid even then. Just not about the job."

"Terrified."

"But you got the gal in the end."

Another big, swelling, almost tearful grin appeared, brimming over with nostalgia and longing. "I did," he said proudly. "Jumped a fence and hijacked a plane to DC."

Woody downed half his beer in one big swig. "Whoa," he exclaimed. "I'm impressed."

"You don't wanna know the details. Believe me. It wasn't heroic. More of a farce really. Except for the kiss at the end."

Woody chuckled at this, aching to know the uncomfortably entertaining details, but restraining himself.

"OK then. Drink your tea and tell me what went wrong. You can spill that embarrassing stuff later."

Jane relaxed a bit and smiled to himself at the humiliating but fond memories of bemused travellers and being manhandled by indignant TSA officers. Even that long despairing night sitting in detention, with only his throbbing ankle to keep him company and the certain knowledge the Teresa was on route to DC, didn't seem so bad in retrospect. The humiliation had certainly been worthwhile at the time.

Woody studied him as Jane scrolled forward through those first few days of tentative but blissful discovery with Lisbon, and saw remembered affection and happiness flood his eyes with colour and soften the contours of his face.

"Those first few days were surreal," he enthused, more animated, more positive than he'd felt for days. "It was like a wonderful, scary, exhilarating fairground ride. I couldn't believe I'd been given permission to love again … or rather, given myself permission. Hardly knew how to deal with it. So we were taking it slow, just feeling our way, enjoying each other."

"The right way." Woody nodded sagely.

Jane took a breath and became solemn.

"Then the fish resurfaced."

"The other man?"

"Yeah, Pike. Asked if I had a plan. That was a bit of a wake up call. Brought me down to earth, because I didn't have a plan. And, of course, him calling me on that made me nervous."

He smiled ironically into the surface of what was left of his tea, "Hm, Teresa must have been amused at that … or perturbed … because I always have a plan. But, anyway, we decided to go without said plan, just do what felt right, which seemed the only sensible thing to do. She was good about that, very patient with me. Always has been."

"And things were fine after that, you didn't feel a need for stability?"

"Yeah, things were good at first, but Pike made me realise that things were different, that by telling Teresa I loved her, by asking her to change her life again for me, I had taken on a new responsibility; and that, on its own, was a new and sobering challenge."

Woody shook his head a little, "Too right, people don't always consider the implications of those three little words. Toss 'em into the conversation like confetti. Then watch'em get swept away after the church bells stop peeling."

"Yeah, and I'd kept them mostly locked away for years, so that moment when I said it for real was hard won … the most terrifying and precious moment of my more recent life."

Tears welled unbidden in Jane's eyes again, as a fleeting thought of Angela surfaced and a pang of residual guilt prickled in his heart. He had to swallow hard before moving on.

"Then, before we'd really got settled, before we'd even come out to the team, our second case turned out to be a disaster. She went under cover. Not only was it our first time apart, and I found out that missing her had become even more intense than before I had any right to miss her, but things got dangerously out of hand. I blundered into a standoff, unarmed and without backup, thinking I could save her, with no plan other than to improvise. We both ended up staring down the barrel of a gun. We both could have died. But at least we'd have gone down together."

He sighed, a sigh so huge that it sent a shudder through his whole, tired body, but he shrugged it off and went on.

"And it brought back the fear with a vengeance. After that I began to get overly protective; snippy if I felt she was being threatened in even the slightest way. I think I may have become even more annoying than usual. And that was just about the little things. But I always would have kept her safe. Always told her so, so that was nothing new, but it never preyed on my mind too much, had always been a reflex … 'keep Lisbon safe … she's precious'. Never lost much more sleep than usual over it til then, but ever since it's coloured everything I do."

"Did you consider ways to control it?"

"Not at first. I figured I could find superficial ways to deal with it, as and when the need arose. You know: denial, self-control, breathing exercises, distraction. Things I'd been doing for years. Didn't work. But then, one night, I hadn't been well, felt a little spaced out, dreamy. We were lying there together, in the Silver Bucket, and I started daydreaming about leaving it all behind. I even said it out loud, suggested we leave the FBI, go travelling. It was only half thought out musings, but I have to admit her defensiveness was unexpected."

"She didn't want to leave her job."

"Exactly."

"Law enforcement … it's a vocation."

"Seems it's more than that to her," Jane's tone carried a hint of bitterness. "She just looked at me like I suggested something crazy and said 'It's who am Jane', then she left. I was too sleepy to worry about it at the time. But I have to say it did sting a bit … like maybe she felt she didn't have room for anything else. For us. Or maybe she was scared. Of us."

"You didn't pressurise her?"

"Na, I floated the idea a few times over the next week or two. Didn't actually mention the leaving the FBI thing directly, just tried to make her see that there's a big, beautiful, world out there, waiting to be explored … and honestly it wasn't all about me being afraid; we deserve a life now after what we've both been through. But she kept on deflecting. Saw straight through me. Doesn't like boats, not into bee keeping blah, blah, blah…"

Woody looked puzzled. "This doesn't sound insoluble, I mean things were still cool between you."

"Oh, sure," Jane smiled fondly. "We never argued about it. I understood her position. She's afraid of change and she does live for her job. And maybe I could have lived with it given time, but we had a big case protecting a witness, knew there would be a hit. I did the planning, but that night I didn't sleep a wink. Hadn't been that sick with worry since Red John, couldn't shake off the gloom. She did her best to reassure me, but I could see she had no idea just how much it was getting to me. Why would she … like she said … being in danger … it's who she is."

He downed the last dregs of his cold tea with a sour groan, then breathed in deeply and pushed the air out again in a long, resigned huff, like he was blowing away his guilt. "So I pulled her out of the firing line at the last minute. Funny, it wasn't something I planned. I suppose I panicked in the heat of the moment and given the opportunity, of course … couldn't stop myself. Didn't regret it, still don't. Kinda hoped she wouldn't rumble me though."

"But she did?"

"Yeah, and she was furious. And when I admitted that I'd probably do it again … well, let's just say I thought my number was up. Things were chilly that night."

"Why do you think that case got to you so much? I mean cops are always in danger, right."

"It was one where we knew the risk was high. Mostly there's no time to think through the dangers. It was that, but more than that, it was the timing, now I come to think about it."

"Hmm, timing ... so something else happened? " Woody observed pensively, getting up and reaching for the denim jacket he'd discarded earlier.

Jane remained seated, deep in thought.

"Come on," Woody gestured at Jane to follow him. "I have a feeling this is gonna be a long night and I need a smoke and some fresh air. Yeah, I know that's nonsensical, but I don't light up in the van if the weather's good."

He picked up an old tobacco tin from over near the driver's seat and climbed out into the night, which was eerily quiet and sultry, but with a cloudless sky, dark now but lit by a glowing harvest moon.

Jane unfolded his legs and retrieved his own crumpled jacket, stretching his back and arms out as he struggled into it and negotiated the rickety steps to join him outside.

"You're still very welcome to join me, you know," Woody offered, turning round to Jane, who had trotted to catch him up as he wandered off to the other side of the road. He opened the ancient tin, whose vintage logo had worn away to reveal the shiny polished metal underneath and showed the contents. Inside were four small, neatly rolled joints.

"There're mostly regular tobacco, hardly any of the good stuff. It helps me wind down some nights. Bit of a throw back from the old days."

Jane immediately drew back and stared at the amiable face, with an element of disappointment.

"I told you," he said sharply. "I don't do drugs."

Then the corners of his mouth curved a little and his tone softened. "And it's highly unprofessional to be under the influence while counselling a patient," he paused to give Woody a moment to squirm and to allow his own smile to develop a fraction. "Wouldn't you say Doctor? … or did you blow town before you qualified?"

Once he'd got over the shock, the lapsed psychiatrist threw back his head and laughed heartily, slapping a now fully smiling Jane hard on the back.

"You really are something, aren't you Paddy boy," he roared in his crackling, smoke damaged voice. "You got me there though. How'd ya guess."

"Oh, just paying attention," Jane told him coolly, "The way you listen. The way you probe, knowing when to push and when not to. That, and the fact that I fascinate you so much. That and your disillusionment with life, with people, yet you still feel compelled to help me."

"And knowing that, you still want to talk to me? Woody asked. "A closed off person like yourself."

This elicited a wry smile from Jane who was feeling inexplicably more relaxed and actually found himself wanting to work through his problems. It was certainly true he'd never considered telling another soul how he felt about Lisbon's job and his fear for her … or any of the other stuff he'd already vouchsafed to this complex but likeable stranger, who it turned out, wasn't as enigmatic as he seemed.

"Well," he declared almost cheerfully. "I have time to spare and now that you've opened the flood gates … I think we can help each other."

The faux hippie, or was it faux shrink, snapped his baccy tin shut without disturbing the contents, slipped it into the back pocket of his saggy jeans and ran quickly across the highway to lock his van, then came back to join Jane who was now studying the vastness of the starry night sky with great intensity.

He stood, hands in pockets, observing the man studying the stars and wondered why love could not overcome his fear. Did his woman love her job more than she loved him? Did he fear that this was so? A why was his fear apparently stronger than his desire to be with her?

"Right then Patrick. Let's walk and talk some more. Tell me what was so bad about the timing. Hopefully we'll have us both back on track by sunup."

I hope you will take some time to let me know how you feel about this chapter, I know there's a lot of chat, but I just can't seem to stop them.

Hopefully the final installment will be up sooner than this was and Jane will be on his way back to Lisbon.