Firstly no long author's notes this time, except to say thank you to all my faithful reviewers. I can't even remember if I pm'd you all back, but please know that your support is precious.

Hopefully this is the penultimate chapter of Jane's marathon heart to heart with Woody.

Enjoy... and if you're a new reader, welcome. Let me know what you think.

Woody sat quietly on his own in his van and within minutes, the sound of smooth leather soles bounding across the dirt heralded the return of the mentalist.

Jane put four brown bottles on the drainer by the little sink and threw an assortment of plastic bags on the table.

"Pecans, dried apricots," he declared. " … and those," he indicated with a long pointer finger, to a generously proportioned evidence bag full of in the shell nuts. " … are best quality organic peanuts. I scrounged a life time supply from a job we did down on the Mexican border."

"Cool," said Woody as he searched Jane's carefully emotionless countenance, trying to get a vibe for his state of mind. "Mind if I put some music on?" he asked. "Classical okay?"

Jane managed an indifferent shrug. "Long as it's not Bach or Beethoven."

"Debussy then, and Satie."

"Not exactly Woodstock … ," Jane smiled wryly. " I'm impressed."

He sat himself down in his old position on the bench seat in front of the table and feigned a relaxed air by slumping slightly and resting one arm along the back of the seat.

"Music's music Patrick. And good music speaks to the soul, wouldn't ya say?"

"If the soul's ready to listen," came a whisper of jaundiced cynicism that wasn't intended to dent Woody's well intentioned efforts but did anyway.

But Woody carried on regardless, fishing around at the front of the van and slipping a cassette from an unlabelled case into a battered machine that hung from two hooks under one of the many little shelves that had been added to the VW's interior over the years.

Soon soft piano music filled the exotic little camper van and within minutes it was indeed having the desired effect.

"So. Did she call you?" Woody enquired with a modicum of circumspection as he came to sit down. "I figured that's what took you so long. Checking your phone."

Jane already had his eyes closed and was reluctantly luxuriating in the hypnotic first notes of Gymnopedie No.1. He didn't respond to Woody's speculation immediately, but when he eventually opened his eyes they were damp and sad again.

Woody wasn't certain it wasn't the music; when he was in the mood it was certainly a piece that could wrench a tear from his eye.

After a bit, Jane responded quietly. "I didn't pick up, didn't look," he admitted. "Bastard that I am."

He looked at Woody a little helplessly and expelled a long quivering sigh. "But I know I missed a call this morning. I'm sure it's not the only one."

Woody got up again, almost before his bony backside had touched down. He reached for two beers and levered off the caps, sliding one over sit in front of Jane and taking a quick swig from his own. Then he found a couple of rustically decorated bowls, emptied Jane's fruity offering into one, put the pecans in the other and left the peanuts in the plastic bag.

"So why didn't you call her back?" he asked as he resumed his seat.

"I … I didn't want to make things worse than they already are," Jane explained simply.

Woody's shaggy brows arched a little, a hovering question. "Are things really that bad? I mean, I thought she knew you were struggling."

Jane shrugged and responded blandly.

"I left her standing at a funeral. I wouldn't expect her to feel good about that."

Woody's brow dropped to disappointment.

"You didn't talk before you left?"

Jane confirmed Woody's supposition with a slight shake of his head and stared ruefully at the drops of condensation collecting on the cold glass of his beer bottle.

"It didn't seem like the time or the place; inappropriate. I just blurted it out. I did ask her to come with, though. Didn't pressure. She doesn't like that." His finger cleared a snaking path down the dewy cloud on the bottle as he remembered. "But I didn't give her much time to think it over, so I shouldn't be surprised she didn't come."

"Big decision."

"Yeah …"

"You leave straight away?"

"I couldn't stay. Not a minute longer."

"Too many reminders?"

Jane's face betrayed mild surprise at Woody's assumption, and at his own reaction.

"Of the past?" he sought confirmation, then he slowly came to a realisation, feeling guilt he hadn't felt at the time. He recognised another, albeit painful step in moving on. "No… no, not of the past. At least not in the way you might think," he confessed.

Not of Angela. Not of Charlotte.

"Of what the future could hold?"

"Yeah. Visions of Teresa," he spoke quietly, deliberately, through the remembered images of that grey day, with its ritual introduction to grieving and its ceremonial goodbyes.

"I looked at that coffin, Michelle's coffin, all dead and disguised under the flag, and all I could think of was that it could have been Teresa. Hell, it might as well have been her, the way it felt. I just about broke down there and then. Managed to keep it pretty well hidden, one of my many talents you know. Don't let them see the real you."

He grimaced and his fists clenched. "I mean, what sort of man goes to mourn a beautiful, innocent girl, a girl with so much potential, so much life to live, and stands there blubbering because of what might have been. Panicking cos it's not the wrong body in the box."

He raised his clenched fists, let them unfurl slowly and spread both hands down on the table, fingers stretched wide and taught, and he stared at them accusingly. Then he turned them over, palms up, flexing supple fingers and tracing his life on one hand with the fingers of the other, as if he would find the answers he sought in the lines he saw.

"God, what a screw up I am."

Woody stuffed a few nuts in his mouth and started shelling another, but remained the silent observer until Jane continued.

"I stood there looking at that wall of strong people; military, cops, people stronger than me, row upon row of them, standing there like soldiers; and I realised I'm not one of them … not brave, not fearless, not able to accept whatever fate brings. I'm not one of the good guys … although I try to be these days. Never will be though … but she is. Lisbon is. Lisbon's one of them, through and through. She doesn't need me."

"Oh, I don't suppose that's true," Woody told him, but didn't give Jane time to challenge. "Did you ever think about why she's one of them?"

"She's a cop."

"Yes, but why's she a cop?"

Jane almost spat the words, although they didn't sound venomous, just hurt. "It's who she is," he said. "She told me so."

Then the pain left his voice as quickly as the words spilled out and he spoke more softly. Affectionately.

"I know what she means though, she's lived for that job for years, much longer than I've known her. Since she was a girl. But she accused me … no, asked if I was jealous of it, and that isn't the way it is, not at all. That job's made her the woman she is, she'd be lost without it. And I know that."

"So how do you really feel about her job then? If you're not jealous."

Jane raked his hair and blew steamy breath into to air while he considered what he honestly felt about Lisbon's job.

"I guess it's the difference between jealousy and envy. Not that I approve of either. It's just that I wish I had what she's got. If I disappear, for whatever reason, she'll miss me a lot, for a bit, but she'll fill whatever void I leave with her job."

Woody nodded as if to prompt. " And …"

"And …. if I lose her, all I have is a great big chasm to dive into. So, well I try my best not to think about it,"

Jane's faced took on an expression that wavered between distress and disgust. "That's another thing that doesn't work," he mumbled.

He downed the remaining half of his drink and sat back, hands clasped behind his head, face once more smoothed into neutral, eyes tensely closed but again posing as relaxed, and he tried to make it work. He tried to clear his mind of everything save the mellifluous strains of The Girl with the Flaxen Hair, now floating in glorious soothing waves of sound from the ancient cassette player.

Woody waited a bit, hoping Jane would find the way to expressing more of his carefully guarded thoughts unbidden and willingly. He occupied himself temporarily by eating more peanuts and the remaining apricots, all of which Jane had made no move to touch, then he scraped together the discarded shells on the formica table top and threw them noisily into the tin can that was serving as a bin. They rewarded him with a satisfying series of irritating clinks and clatters. He figured three or four minutes was enough stewing time for anyone, and didn't intend to let those painful thoughts stay locked up behind that blanked off face much longer; not now, when he was beginning to see through to a path that was blindingly obvious. No matter how much blustering and ignoring he might be met with.

Jane didn't respond to the distractions he knew were a hint that he wasn't going to be given permission to close down the lines of communication, but Woody saw the twitch of lids over restless eyes, watched as lips tightened with steadfast resistance. He got up with a jerk and a scrape of his chair and moved the bin away, trying to force Jane's attention onto him as he spoke, and when he addressed Jane it was with a calculated tone of resignation and with deliberate slowness.

"It would do you more good to talk about it, you know," he said. "I know it seems like all we've done tonight is talk about talking, but too much internalising twists the threads of the clearest thoughts into knots. Even the good thoughts can start turning bad if you give them too much time mixing with the bad ones. And it's no good locking the bad thoughts behind closed doors in that damned memory palace of yours. 'Cause there ain't no key to throw away."

That got Jane's attention.

He said nothing, quelling his irritation and doing his utmost to disguise it under a carefully controlled lowering of his arms and a languorous licking of his lips.

He took the first sip of the fresh beer that had miraculously appeared before him.

"Oh yeah," said Woody. "I figure you've got one of those clever ways to keep you one step ahead; a fancy mental filing cabinet, with all the bells and whistles. But hiding stuff away in that overcrowded head of yours is no solution. The demons'll always find a way to haunt you," he smiled knowingly. "Besides, you know what they say, that old cliché, a problem shared and all that ….. it's true … and it would better shared with her."

Jane leaned forward, his eyes now wide and intense, confronting what he perceived to be Woody's all too simplistic advice.

"You think I don't know that? You think I haven't thought about that? Yeah, we had a few goes at the talking thing. She has appalling timing,"

He thought back to the times they'd started to attempt to air their issues. Those first few times when he'd gently raised the suggestion that there was a life beyond law enforcement had been met with mostly light-hearted deflection and by the time his fear had really started ramping up, for some reason it seemed to be she who had raised the subject; probably because he knew he would be on the back foot, so he'd sort of given up. He knew by then she was already becoming entrenched in her defence of her job, and he was beginning to feel she had no real understanding of his anxiety. The tiny crack that he'd opened between them that night on his bed in the airstream, him under the covers and her outside, was opening to a gulf.

He tried to explain to Woody. "I'm just getting around to finding a way to convince her what a weakling I am, and we have to find a solution, because I'm going to go crazy and do something stupid and she cuts me off with a patronising platitude. Every single time."

He waved his hands to illustrate multiple excuses. "You know the sort of thing … anything could happen, it'll be alright, I'm a cop … I can look after my self."

He then threw his arms out in a gesture of wild frustration and attempted a laugh.

It came out like a strangled cat.

"Hah! Her best one was, and I quote 'you can't keep pulling me from the path of oncoming trains … there's always another one coming' … or some such nonsense. That's exactly what I'm worried about. They keep on coming. Except it's guns, for god's sake. Not trains. Little more difficult to dodge and not so easy to hear them coming. "

Jane pinned Woody with laser like eyes and asked him.

"What good's all that reassurance if she's the one in the coffin, Woody? You answer me that. How do I go on if she's dead? Croaked. Six feet under. Pushing up daisies. Sitting up on some fluffy white cloud, having tea and biscuits with Angie and Charlotte. How am I supposed to carry on then?

Woody forced himself to maintain steady contact with Jane's pain filled eyes as they gradually became awash with unshed tears that he batted away with a single determined blink.

"I've done it once," he said very quietly. "And I don't know if I have the strength to do it again."

Woody studied Jane carefully, undeterred by the emotion threatening to trickle from between the man's lashes.

"You're not angry with Teresa, are you Patrick?"

Jane blinked again and swallowed.

"No. No, not at all. I'm frustrated and worried. Because it's all got so out of hand. I walked into a hostage situation, so that she wouldn't have to, which is stupid because it's just turning the tables after all. It makes sense that she goes in, she has the vest and the gun, the plan and the back up, and it's her job … but I couldn't help myself. And I'd do it again. I'll get myself killed or I'll alienate her. Because I can't lose her. I don't know how I'd react and it terrifies me."

"Have you considered how you might react? Is that what really scares you … what you might do, rather than the actual loss?"

"I think about it all the time. The fact that I didn't cope … at all."

"After your wife and child?"

No answer.

"What happened?"

Jane sighed sadly. "Months in a white room, behind a locked door, drugged up to the eye balls and suicidal. That's what happened, my friend. I kind of gave up for a bit and someone found me lying senseless on the beach one day. The rest is a bit of a blur."

Woody was a little shocked by this revelation, but not overly surprised when he gave it some thought.

He kept his face impassive and his immediate thoughts to himself.

The impression he had already formed of his unusual guest, was one of a complex, multi layered man, but a man who usually kept the many facets of his personality under strict control; showing only what he wanted to be seen. He saw a man of unusually creative intelligence, awareness and sensitivity, a strong and determined man, but one whose emotions ran deep and powerful, informed by a strong sense of right and wrong that had fought it's way through a mire of immoral influence and instability in his childhood. It had developed in him a single-minded determination to better himself and a fierce drive to provide for and protect those he loved, by whatever means he could. But a drive that he felt had failed him, had failed his family.

It was no wonder his extreme guilt over his wife and daughter's deaths had made him crumble, when Red John had taken away the perfectly controlled and perfectly beautiful life he'd built, with the two people in the world he loved and who loved him. A life they'd made together, away from the domineering influence of his father; the man who'd set him on the path to a lifestyle that he would come to regret for the rest of his life; a lifestyle he struggled everyday to put behind him.

Estranged from his father, his mother little more than a distant sunny memory and his roots in the carnival mostly long abandoned, the serial killer had taken away the only family he still had.

His guilt and subsequent breakdown had robbed him of the only career he knew; the dubious path his father had set him on, but one he couldn't, in all conscience, carry on walking anyway.

These things had left him with no life to speak of, only the gaping chasm of which he spoke, filled with nothing but a burning desire to avenge his family.

Then, after a tumultuous decade, on that fateful sunny day in a Sacramento park, his revenge had become reality, and without his obsession with Red John to fill it, the chasm had become a seemingly bottomless pit that he was still, even now, trying to climb out of. Naturally, he feared he would fall back into it if he lost the one person who could fill the pit or stop him from falling over the edge.

During those two sun filled years in exile, he'd found a way to partially fill the void with the rosy glow of hope and the distraction of writing letters to Teresa.

Now, after the protracted struggle with himself, his guilt, his doubt and fear, and the obstacles that seemed to keep lining up to stand in his path, he had finally found his love, and it was clear to see that, in his eyes, if he lost her, there would be no more hope. At the bottom of the pit was the prospect of another white room or something still worse.

Woody wondered if Teresa even knew the truth of her lover's psychological history or understood just how little he had, or felt he had, without her.

"Patrick," he asked. "Teresa does know about your breakdown?"

"It came up, once or twice, in passing, yeah," Jane said, not intending to expand on the subject.

"You never really talked about it … in all those ten years."

Jane's brows knitted. He felt affronted that anyone might have expected him to air his dirty linen in public. Even to the woman he was now in love with. He avoided answering by fiddling distractedly with the buttons of his shirt cuffs, while he thought back to those difficult times; times when circumstances had conveniently saved him from having to confront a subject he even now found embarrassing.

"The time was never right," he finally explained. "It didn't come up until we got a case that involved my ex psychiatrist."

"Wouldn't that have been the perfect time?"

Jane blustered, still deeply ashamed. "I did have to come clean, just to clear up my connection to the woman, for the case …" he said quickly, "We got interrupted. Why would I bring it up again. It's not something I'm proud of … one of many, many things actually."

Woody decided not to push too hard on a door that was obviously creaky, but still stubbornly holding back an ocean of pain. He figured a different tack might yield more insight into a relationship that was obviously burdened with unexplored neuroses and long concealed secrets. He looked hard at the damaged goods that were Patrick Jane, then closed his eyes and took a moment. He thanked the Lord that he was Woody Rubenstein, not the troubled but intriguing conundrum sharing the comfort of his beloved Betty tonight.

Suddenly he was aware of two misty grey green eyes searching his face.

"She saw me when I was pretty low though," Jane confided, seeming quite comfortable, like he'd been remembering happier thoughts. "I rolled into her office a month or two after I convinced Dr. Miller I was sane, which wasn't easy I can tell you," he almost chuckled, recalling how hard he'd tried to make his messed up mind behave itself so he could get out of that place and begin his quest. How he'd strived to appear normal.

"I'd been looking into Red John, using internet cafes and public libraries for weeks but it was soul destroying and I was well on the way back down; stopped taking the meds, not sleeping, not eating, hiding in corners, sleeping rough, etcetera, etcetera," he raised a shy grin and gesticulated his multiple symptoms with dancing hands. "Then it dawned on me … which proves I was well out of it, because it was the first thing I should have done … the best way to find him … straight to the best source of information."

"The cops."

"Yeah," he said triumphantly. "And there she was; all sturdy boots and sassy walk. Although, I didn't notice that till later."

"And she took you under her wing."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that. Not at first. Actually, she kinda gave me a kick up the ass, said I looked like a homeless person … which I guess I did. Would have been understandable, there being only those two little words in my head at the time. And they weren't bathrooms and laundromats."

"What made you listen to her?"

"Well … maybe it was the way she smiled at me when she told me off, all the time trying to hide it behind her ferocity … that and she had the Red John files. But I soon got the impression she saw something left in me worth fighting for, even if I didn't. She's a sucker for lost causes, you know, even now."

Woody gave Jane a supportive smile. "And are you a lost cause Paddy?"

Jane scratched his head, "What do you think?" he asked, "Because I thought everything was looking up, turning to the bright side, until this fear thing started rearing it's ugly head again."

"Oh, I think we can fix you. You and I. There's one more thing I want to know."

"What's that?"

"Why didn't you tell her exactly what you were afraid would happen if you lost her?"

Jane laughed. "I told you Woody, she has terrible timing."

Woody covered his mouth to stifle a yawn.

"Well, you'd best get a wriggle on and tell me, because, now I come to think of it I have another question and I don't know about you, but I'm bushed."

Jane glanced at the watch he'd started wearing just before the Red John confrontation. He'd worn it to be sure not to miss his appointment with his nemesis.

Two thirty.

He'd been pouring out his life story, in all its tragic detail, to a complete stranger for almost ten hours, off and on. The only person he'd ever spent that long talking to in one session must have been Sophie … or it might have been, since his memory of those talks was sketchy at best. Never talked to Lisbon that long … maybe not even Angie … not in one go…

"Okay. You got me. I'll wriggle," he gave a weary grin of sorts, realising he too was exhausted; running on the dwindling dregs of cardboard breakfasts, Woody's ham and eggs, faint threads of hope and short bursts of adrenaline.

He thought back to the night of Abbott's leaving party.

"It was the last time she pushed me to talk about it and I told her I didn't know how I'd react, but she didn't pick up on it. I was just about finding the courage to tell her how bad it really was, but she had to go and pick a damned party. I just couldn't, I mean who admits they're afraid of ending up in a pysch ward or blowing their brains out at a workplace celebration. I chickened out. Maybe it was good manners. Maybe my subconscious stopped me. But I let her persuade me that everything would be fine, that we'd be strong together and everything was great. And I tried to be cheerful, I really did. In fact it turned out to be a great night. We danced, in front of the team, like she was okay with us being together in public, and for that one night I felt connected, like maybe it could be alright."

The music from the ancient cassette machine had run its course, and the van was bathed in the quietness of night time. But as Jane sat, recalling the warm buzz of that Texas evening, the smell from the Taco stand, the twinkling pastel glow from the hanging lanterns, the chatter of the colleagues he was at last coming to admit were real friends, he found himself back on the dance floor, could hear the bouncy music of the live band.

When Teresa asked him to dance it had surprised him, even though he knew it was her way to drag him out of his melancholy, but still, it was a joy to him when she acted against character and did something spontaneous. He'd been amused at the thought that he was rubbing off on her. He'd even fallen back into their easy teasing banter as they'd taken to the floor hand in hand, starting with a conventional hold, work partners celebrating, swinging and twirling happily like the rest of the team. She had promised him two dances, but it soon turned into more, and by the second bar of the first slow song his arms had slipped down to enclose her waist and her head had found it's warm resting place on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart. They had felt comfortable. Dancing like lovers. As a couple.

It had been a wonderful night.

Then Michelle had died.

And the dam that had been valiantly holding back his fear had finally broken.

Jane felt the heaviness of his situation weighing down on him in the silence that had been calming, but suddenly became oppressive. It snapped him out of his reverie with a sharpness that startled the wits out of Woody, who was just barely managing to stay awake.

"So," he snapped. "One more thing you said?"

Woody opened his mouth slowly, ready to speak, but was cut off by a raised palm.

"I've been doing all the talking," Jane continued. "And frankly, cathartic though it's been, I'm worn out. I know what you want me to tell you. You want to know why I think Teresa's a cop, why she's so brave and why she coped with her tragedy so much better than me? I know the answers, but I don't see how it solves anything. So why don't you tell me what you think. It'll help you stay awake, while I have a little rest."

Woody was slightly affronted by Jane's acerbic tone, but attributed it to the weariness that was starting to drag down the contours of his face and making his skin dull and grey. The hippy took a positive approach; didn't let Jane's mood bother him. Just a few more minutes and he would send his patient back to the confines of his Airstream, which he supposed probably felt like purgatory with all it's reminders of his woman. He felt bad about that, but really, Betty didn't have the space to accommodate two grown men, both used to their own space, potentially restless and almost certainly snoring.

Besides he had some serious thinking to do before daybreak. If he could stay awake.

"Sure, why not," he answered evenly, checking to see if the mentalist was actually listening, or even still conscious. He found him to be drawn and tiredly tense, but alert.

"You're right," he said, "although I wouldn't have put it quite that way. It is obvious, though. Unlike you, she had no choice other than to be strong. When her mother died she was strong for her little brothers because her father couldn't be, she took on the role of mother, and in many ways that was a comfort, it kept her mother alive for her. Of course that need to look after her brothers only grew stronger when her father died, she must have felt angry that he'd deserted them, but she still had her brothers so she threw that anger into determination to be there for them. She only grew stronger. Of course she didn't have much time to spend on grieving and being sad, and when she did she had her faith. She had always been destined to be a carer, with her religious upbringing, her mother a nurse, her father a fire fighter, and naturally with a male oriented family life for so many years, it made sense for her to become a cop. The traditional male caring environment and a way to work out her anger over the injustice of both her parents' deaths."

Woody stopped for a breath while Jane just stared at him with glazed eyes.

"So now she's a member of a family full of people like her, she has to be responsible for her team, her family, and she has the security of knowing they have her back too. She gets to go on giving surrounded by a family that will always be there, even though its members might come and go. She feels safe, it's natural she wouldn't want to give that up."

Jane felt a wave of absolute despair wash over him as what he already knew in his heart was spelled out to him in cold hard words. Teresa's job was her life, if not who she was. It was the result of the investment of years of her life that he felt he could not hope to emulate. It was her safety net. And he had none.

"That's not healthy Woody," he said hopelessly.

Woody sighed. He understood, and as he rose slowly to clear up their empty bottles, a wicked smile spread across his face.

"I know Patrick. It's far from healthy. If that's all she has. Now we need to get some shuteye. Get yourself back to that silver bucket of yours, so I can have my bedtime smoke and do some cogitating. We'll catch up in the morning."

Half an hour later Jane was still where he had been for the last twenty minutes. Sitting on the steps of the Airstream, sipping a cup of proper tea and staring at the stars.

So, no solution yet, but next chapter should see Woody coming up with some advice, Jane finding his way back home to Lisbon, and a short epilogue.

Hope you didn't find it all too depressing ...