Some more issues left to resolve and because that's not always a pleasant experience, I'm afraid this is at least in parts quite angsty. But it's the last bit of angst in this story, I promise (which isn't much of a promise considering that this is the last chapter before the epilog, but anyway...).


Also in Jane's private life there had been major changes. The most important part – his romantic involvement with Lisbon – had blossomed and so had his relationships with his friends and family. But he'd had to deal with some of the remnants and loose ends of his life prior to Red John, which wasn't by any means an easy process. And thus Lisbon had come home from work one day about three weeks after Jane's release from hospital while he was still on sick leave:

"Honey, I'm home!" she shouted upon entering, as had become her wont as they both enjoyed the cheesiness of the inane greeting. This time she didn't get an answer.

"Patrick?" she asked the slumped down figure on the couch. "You okay? I thought, you wanted to make your famous lasagna tonight? I even left a pile of paperwork sitting on my desk to be home on time. I'm starving."

"Wasn't in the mood to cook," was his toneless answer.

She stepped closer to him after shedding her jacket and getting out of her shoes. "You could've called. I could've gotten us some take-out on my way," she said, slightly miffed but also a tad worried.

"Wasn't in the mood to call," he muttered just as tonelessly as before.

She sat down beside him and tried to decipher his strange behavior. His face was an impenetrable mask. Her hand reached out for his right one, but he removed it from its resting place by his side when he became aware of her intention to grab it. His complete withdrawal hurt her deeply, but she tried to stay calm. "What the hell's the matter with you, Patrick?" she inquired, not quite managing to keep the hurt out of her slightly accusing voice.

"Not in the mood to talk," he answered quietly.

Lisbon jumped up from the sofa and glared at him. "You know what I'm not in the mood for, Jane? This crap! I had a stressful day at the office, I'm tired and I'm hungry. I'll go upstairs now and take a bath to relax, so I'll be able to quell my urge to throttle you. I'd appreciate it if you could adjust your attitude in the meantime. I don't feel like dealing with a moody teenager all night."


She stumped up the stairs and left a bashful and distraught man in her wake. He was deeply ashamed of his behavior. He hadn't meant to cause her pain, but he hurt so much inside that he'd been paralyzed with it for hours now. He felt hollow and listless, even the thought of getting up from the sofa felt like a Herculean act and all of it caused by one simple phone call.

He wanted nothing more than to be able to deal with the pain in his heart, especially for Teresa's sake, but somehow he couldn't. Even the few words he'd managed to utter had been an ordeal and had left him, if possible, even more emotionally exhausted.

Her anger only made it worse. But he didn't blame her in the least. He knew he'd acted like a jerk. He just didn't know how else to be right now. What he did know was that he couldn't bear to be at odds with his lover, but somehow sharing his troubles with her seemed completely out of the range of possibilities at the moment. Not because he didn't want to share, but because he felt too empty and too heavy and too apathetic - totally beyond words.

He just continue to sit there in the same spot staring ahead and hoping that Teresa would forgive him for his behavior once more.


She came down the stairs about an hour later, relaxed and in a much better mood, expecting that Jane had gotten his act together and stopped behaving so childishly. When she found him in the same position on the couch, she sighed heavily and decided to ignore him for the time being.

She went to the kitchen and was greeted by a sight that puzzled her: he'd obviously been in the process of finishing dinner when his "mood" had changed. Most of the work had been done already: the lasagna looked like it only lacked a layer of cheese on the top before going in the oven, the salad had been washed and a dressing was ready as well. Even a bottle of red wine had been poured into a carafe for decantation.

She shook her head and decided to get to the bottom of this. He still sat on the sofa when she returned, now with the added feature of him shaking. This made her revise her previous assumptions for good. He wasn't just acting up. Something was seriously wrong with him. It almost looked like he was in shock.

Teresa crossed the remaining space between them in a hurry and knelt down before him to get a better look at his face. He was white as a sheet and silent tears leaked from his eyes. Resolutely she took hold of his right hand, the one fidgeting in his lap. It felt eerily cold to her touch. She grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and swept it around him. He flinched a bit but didn't pull away when she sat down close by his side and put her arm around his shoulders.

"It's okay, Patrick. I'm here, I have you," she whispered reassuringly, while her hand started to caress the sensitive spot at his neck, feeling the enormous tension in his back. "We don't need to talk or anything. Just let me hold you. I think you're in a bit of a shock. Let me help you."

She took heart from the fact that his shivering subsided a bit, but other than that he didn't react. Worry wasn't even beginning to describe what she felt and she was seriously considering calling a doctor. But she knew, he'd hate that and he didn't seem to be in any physical pain. Her next thought was calling his grandfather. Patrick had grown close to the old man and had confided in him quite a bit, she'd even go so far as term it counseling (not to Jane's ears though).

With new determination she decided that yes, Jonathan was likely to be the one best suited to tell her what to do. Only problem was that her phone was upstairs and she didn't want to leave her boyfriend alone again. Maybe Patrick's was close by. She took a look around the living room and that's when she noticed that he was actually holding his cell phone in a death grip in his left hand.

Detective that she was she concluded that whatever had put him into this state had obviously been caused by a phone call. Carefully she extracted the device from his hand. He didn't offer any resistance. Fortunately his phone was easy to handle with one hand only, so she could resume her calming caresses with the other.

In a moment of inspiration she went through his list of callers, only marginally worried about the breach of privacy. The last number he'd received a call from wasn't from his address book and all she could gather was that it had been from a landline located in LA or close by. With her curiosity peeked and with the hope to finally get to the bottom of this whole mess she pushed the recall button.

"Ah, Mr. Jane. I didn't expect your decision so soon," a male voice answered. "But it's splendid! My customer is really eager to buy as soon as possible."

"Sorry, but this isn't Mr. Jane speaking," Lisbon replied. "I'm agent Lisbon from the CBI. Who am I speaking with?"

"Oh, sorry, Agent. I was sure this was his number. Name's Fielding, from Fielding and Carson's Real Estate. I'm a realtor. How can I help you? Ah, one moment. Isn't Mr. Jane working for the CBI as well?" the man on the other end of the line asked.

From the moment the man had mentioned a buyer, she'd had a very good idea what all of this might be about. Now all she needed was some final confirmation. "Yes, Mr. Fielding. And this is actually Mr. Jane's phone. What exactly did you call him about earlier?"

"Is this an official CBI matter?" the realtor asked a bit anxiously. "Is Mr. Jane in trouble? I mean, we're only on business together, well not yet, not really, anyway. He commissioned me to find a suitable buyer for a beach house he holds in Malibu, ma'am. All I know is that it has a lot of dark history and that Mr. Jane wants to make sure, it's not going to improper people, or, as Mr. Jane put it, to ghouls."

She nodded to herself, her suspicions confirmed. "No, Mr. Fielding. There's no reason for worry. This is just a routine call. A check-up of the technical equipment of our employees," she lied surprisingly easily. "Mr. Jane will get back to you in due time. Have a nice evening." Only waiting long enough for the realtor to utter a last greeting of his own, she hung up.


She should've known it. Yes, she should've seen this one coming. In his eagerness to adjust to life after Red John, Patrick had obviously gotten ahead of himself. Clearly he wasn't ready to part with his former home yet. Too many open ends, too much unfinished business, too many memories not dealt with.

According to his wishes she'd made sure the place had been repaired and cleaned thoroughly after the crime scene had been cleared two weeks after Earl's demise when Patrick had still been in hospital, weak and on strict bed rest.

She'd personally been to the house afterwards to check everything. The place was pristine again, all windows fixed, bullet holes filled, walls painted, blood stains removed. She'd also made sure that his former master bedroom hadn't been touched. She'd felt that it had to be his explicit decision what to do with it.

Unfortunately no occasion had presented itself so far to talk with him about it and frankly, it had kind of slipped her mind a bit. Now she had an inkling that he'd just assumed that it had been cleaned and painted as well, because she couldn't imagine that he would've let anyone, let alone a realtor or a possible buyer, into his personal mausoleum.

She sighed heavily and cursed silently in her head. He tried so much to show the world a man ready to embrace all the changes. Most people seemed to expect him to just be slap-happy now and be finished with his past all of a sudden. Teresa knew better. In many ways he was ready to move on, but he still had a lot of grieving and mourning to do. People seemed to forget that Patrick had never fully dealt with the deaths of his late wife and child. Much of his pain had simply been turned into anger and an obsessive determination to take revenge. Over the years he'd started to heal and especially the last months had been very therapeutic. But she had no illusions that the process was completed.

Another sigh escaped her. Obviously he'd succumbed to the expectations of the other people around him and contacted a realtor in an attempt to force his own hand. She'd heard several people urging him to sell the house. She could still remember vividly his visit to HQ a few days ago during lunch break, when Grace had been at his case relentlessly. Their youngest teammate had her own demons to overcome and in her eagerness to do so she'd apparently put a lot of pressure on Patrick. She recalled Van Pelt calling the place creepy and disgusting, even venturing so far as calling it sick of him to keep it.

Patrick had joked it away at the time, but he'd evidently felt compelled to make an effort to sell it. Lisbon decided she'd have a serious conversation with Grace about tact and advise her strongly to get some counseling of her own, something she'd never imagined ever to be necessary. But it was admittedly hard to notice how easy it was to hurt Jane at times. They were so used to him wearing that charming, nothing-can-faze-me façade and the others hadn't had as much time as her to readjust to the vulnerable man behind that mask.


Seeing him now nearly broke her heart. The sudden concreteness of losing this important link to Angela and Charlotte had obviously put him into a state of shock and panic and he was apparently unable to deal with his emotional pain. And she'd accused him of being childish on top of it.

"Oh, Patrick," she whispered sadly and then throwing caution to the wind she pulled her distraught lover into her arms as much as was possible in their respective positions. His head came to rest against her chest. It was a bit awkward at first, but listening to the steady beat of her heart grounded him, as did the hands tenderly massaging his scalp and the sweet nothings she murmured quietly into his ear. Little by little his rigid posture seemed to ease until he melted into her almost bonelessly.

A soul-shattering sob escaped him before his arms came around her and he held onto her as if she was his lifeline, which she probably was. His hold on her was almost painful, but she didn't have the heart to tell him. At least she could still breathe, even though it was a close call. "It'll be alright," she said reassuringly, continuing to play with his hair. "You don't have to do anything you're not ready for, love. Don't let anyone pressure you. Do things at your own pace, Patrick. I'm so proud of the way you've been dealing with everything. There's no need to rush anything. You'll be fine and I'll be with you every step of the way if you want me to. You don't have to prove anything to anyone," she resumed her calming mantra.

After a few minutes he finally loosened his hold on her to her great relief and looked up. There was some color back on his cheeks and she could see that a bit of a spark had found its way back into his eyes which had been dull earlier. But he looked utterly drained.

"Why don't you lie done for a bit while I finish dinner?" she suggested carefully. "You can take a nap. I'm sure, you'll feel better afterwards."

He nodded. She got up to make room for him to stretch out on the couch, but before she could fully leave he grabbed her hand and stopped her. "Wait," he croaked. With a sheepish half-grin he cleared his throat. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to act like a jerk."

She bent down and pecked him on the lips. "I gathered that, Patrick. I'm not mad. I should've realized there was a reason for your odd behavior. Maybe I should rather apologize for jumping to conclusions."

"That's not necessary, Teresa. You had no way of knowing and you had every right to be miffed. I'm known to be immature after all," he admitted in a subdued tone.

"Not lately, love. And not with me. And I would've realized there was something wrong with you if not for the fact that I was already grumpy when I got home. The Feds have been giving us trouble again." She sighed. "Okay, let's stop apologizing and look ahead then. I'll prepare a cup of tea for you and then you can rest a bit. You look utterly exhausted, honey." She caressed his cheek and gave him another small kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"Thanks. Tea sounds splendid."


Well over an hour later they had eaten a delicious dinner and had retired to their bedroom with a glass of wine each. It was their favorite place in the apartment for several reasons. It was cozy, and it was the one she'd used most of her energy to decorate, so it had always been the most personal room by far. Patrick had added his own touches to it during the last weeks after she'd encouraged him to make himself more at home in her condo. He was responsible for the beautiful new bedside lamps as well as an antique chest of drawers she'd been only too willing to accept as a replacement for her old, ugly one. As usual he'd unerringly picked out the few items in the room she'd not had the time and energy to exchange herself and had replaced them with extremely tasteful alternatives. Now the place had gotten both a touch of genuine Jane-ness and been overall improved. They both loved it that way.

Somehow they'd always preferred to have their serious talks in bed and the setting provided the perfect opportunity to cuddle properly as an added bonus. Their favorite position was usually with Patrick on his back and Teresa lying half on top of him, but as they intended to indulge in some wine and she felt like holding him for a change she settled with her back against the headboard and him with his back against her chest, leaning into her with his head resting on her shoulder. The hand that wasn't busy holding her glass sneaked under his t-shirt and started to stroke his chest soothingly.

"You wanna talk about it, love?" she asked, nuzzling his neck.

He turned his head slightly so they could exchange a short kiss. "Guess, you've figured it out already anyway."

"I know the facts, yes. But not how you feel."

He sipped from his wine. She suspected he was playing for time. He swallowed and took a deep breath. "Better now, obviously," he offered. "Earlier the whole matter caught me by surprise. I didn't expect it to affect me like that. I…" He paused. "It was idiotic, really. I knew, I wasn't ready. But I thought if I just…"

He had to take another moment. "To be honest, I'm afraid of dealing with the house, Teresa. I'm scared, actually. Some days I want to go back and spend some time there. I used to love that place, the beach, the smell of the ocean, the memories of teaching Charlie how to swim or of lying in the sand on a lazy Sunday morning holding Angela in my arms. Other days I just want to get rid of it, never set foot into it again. As if that would make the pain go away. Expel the evil, slay the demons. You get the picture."

He swallowed heavily. Teresa just resumed her soothing motion and let him talk it out at his own pace. The fact that he was so open and honest with her wasn't such a surprise anymore, but she still felt a bit of awe every time he shared memories of his past.

He sought out her mouth for another kiss and she happily obliged. After another sip of wine, he continued, "Frankly, I really don't know what to do, Teresa. Do you think, I should visit it again? I think, maybe I should. It feels like it's getting harder and harder to face it the longer I wait, but on the other hand I can't imagine to never see it again. The mere thought feels like someone's holding my heart in an iron fist."

"It's not my decision to make, Patrick. But if you want my honest opinion, I think you definitely need to visit it again. I think, you need the closure. Real closure, not something you force onto yourself. That house represents so much. I don't think it would be right to just sell it. And your earlier reaction kind of confirms that, wouldn't you agree?"

He nodded against her neck. "Would you come with me?" he asked anxiously. "I don't think I could face it alone."

"Of course. You know, that's the nice thing about having a partner: no need to do things alone," she replied tenderly, kissing his cheek. "And I don't want you to go through that alone anyway. We'll just have to find out when you're ready. Please don't let other people's opinions on the matter pressure you into doing it prematurely."

He emptied his glass and set it down on the bedside table. "I think, I have to deal with it soon or I might never do it," he said pensively. "It feels like the whole thing is growing exponentially in scariness the longer I wait."

"We can do it whenever you want to. I just want it to be for the right reasons, Patrick. Not because Grace or someone else makes a thoughtless statement about matters they don't have any insight into and no business with. Okay?" She drank the last mouthful of her wine and set her glass down right beside his, finding his hand with her newly freed one. Their fingers intertwined immediately.

"I promise, or at least I'll try. It's a bit difficult at this point to decided what really drives me when it comes to Malibu," he admitted honestly.


She brought their connected hands up to her lips and pressed them to his wrist. "Now is probably as good a time as any to mention that the master bedroom hasn't been touched by anyone. I'm sorry if that adds to your pain, but I just thought that you should be the one to make the final decisions when it comes to that particular place. You were in no condition to do so at the time so I made sure it was left alone during the renovation."

A lone tear escaped his eyes. "It's still there?" he asked quietly and she nodded hesitantly, unsure how to read his reaction. "Thank you," he whispered, more tears joining the first one.

He turned around and clung to her for dear life. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he repeated several times. "I thought it was gone." He was sobbing by now and she held him, stroking his back soothingly.

He calmed down again a few minutes later and released his hold on her. "Sorry," he muttered. "I just… all the time I thought it was gone and it hurt so much to think it wasn't there anymore, but at the same time I don't know what to do with it. But now it's still there and I'm so glad, it's not gone. I know it's sick and creepy and unhealthy, but it's their precious blood," he rambled. "I just can't imagine to just paint it over, make it disappear like I was wiping them out of my life. I know it's completely irrational, but…" He had to stop speaking as emotions were about to overwhelm him again.

Teresa could feel his raw pain as if it was her own. She was glad her instincts had told her to leave the place in its previous state. This whole matter was clearly a very important part of his mourning process and she was relieved she hadn't deprived him of the chance to find his own way to say goodbye and deal with the symbol of his deepest guilt and sorrow – the one that held so strong emotions that it had even been able to get him out of his fugue-state. The only thing she was sorry about was that she hadn't told him sooner. All this time he'd assumed that some unknown painter had wiped out the last traces of his family in the house that had been the first real home he'd built in his life.

"I understand, Patrick. I really do. It's not quite the same, but after my dad killed himself I felt like I didn't know what to do with our house. I mean, it was home but it was also the place where everything turned sour and where he took his life. In the end we decided to stay but no one set foot into the attic until the time we had to move out. It was just too painful to face the place where he'd ended it," she told him carefully, her voice tinged with sadness. "I had to show it to the people who wanted to buy the house and it was like a knife through my heart when they callously commented that the beam needed some grinding because it had a visible furrow. That's were he did it, you know? He hung himself and the rope had caused that dent in the woodwork." She locked eyes with him and caressed his cheeks. "I still remember that feeling vividly. That's why I felt like I had to leave the final say about that bedroom to you."

"I guess, you really do understand," he said, his expression one of grateful awe. "Thanks for sharing this with me. And thanks for being so thoughtful. For being you, essentially." He kissed her tenderly. "With you by my side I think I can face it, handle it. Whatever. I love you so much, Teresa. Thanks for putting up with me."

She poked him in the chest, sensing that it was time to ease the mood a little. "It's a real hardship," she teased. "I'm saddled with that awfully handsome, sexy, smart, kind, all around loveable guy, who happens to be serviceable in bed, sometimes even the perfect partner at work, an excellent cook and willing to put up with all of my quirks." She snickered, "Really, I have it soooo bad," she punned.


They'd made love after that, slowly and tenderly, and had fallen asleep with all their limbs still tightly entangled.

The following weekend they'd made a trip to Malibu. It had been emotionally taxing in many ways. Jane had almost bunked at the sight of the stairway and Lisbon had had to support most of his weight when he'd taken his shaky, tentative steps to the very place where Red John had found his death. It hadn't been exactly easy for her either because it was also the very spot where Patrick had almost died in her arms.

All in all it had been a tough, but healing experience for the both of them. They'd entered the room with the smiley face on the wall together and she'd held her weeping lover in her arms for at least an hour, sitting with him on the threadbare mattress that posed as the only furniture in the house.

He'd asked her to give him some time alone when he'd calmed down a bit and she'd taken a long walk on the beach, trying to picture Patrick and his family spending time there together. With all the memories he'd shared with her lately it wasn't very difficult, especially since he'd shown her a photo album containing images of them during their last years. She could even recall some of the locations on sight.


Patrick was still worried at times that it might make her uncomfortable or hurt her when he talked about Angela and Charlotte, but apart from at the very beginning of their relationship she could honestly say that it didn't. Loving Jane included accepting he had a past. The only thing that bugged her at times was knowing that her current happiness was kind of built on the tragedy of two people being slaughtered.

She would have never met Patrick otherwise and as she was sure he was the love of her life, that led to quite a bit of confusion in her head. She'd shared her thoughts with him and he'd been very understanding. He'd also pointed out that he was almost certain she wouldn't have given him a second glance under different circumstances. Deep down he'd of course been essentially the man he was today but on the surface he'd represented everything she despised, he'd explained.

Then he'd confessed that the whole matter of what-ifs confused him as well at times because he loved her so much and he hated the thought that he might never have met her. But thinking like that was a sure way to a horrid headache because it was in actuality a moot point. If they hadn't encountered each other, they both wouldn't have known what they were missing after all.

It had been an absolutely convincing argument and she couldn't possibly fly in the face of such solid logic. Following it was a much better option and helped her overcome even the last residue of unease when confronted with his past. So she decided to look at her walk along the beach as an opportunity to keep Angela's and Charlotte's memory alive. It felt much better that way and they certainly deserved to be remembered fondly (even if it was kind of second hand on her part) because they'd given the man she loved with all her heart so much happiness before she could do so.


When she'd returned to the house a few hours later Patrick had still been located in the bedroom. But he had not been idle. He'd obviously found some red paint somewhere and had turned the terrible smiley face into a laughing red sun, the sight of which made her smile. "It's just the first step," he explained tentatively. "I hope that maybe come tomorrow I'll be able to, you know, really paint it over. We'll see."

She'd been so proud of him and admired his unerring instincts. This was so much better than just applying a layer of paint to cover it, while the horrible symbol still stayed firmly underneath.

She'd been reading a few books about mourning recommended by Jonathan Jane to help her understand what Patrick was going through and also because she knew, she could learn a lot for herself as well. What her lover had done instinctively was to turn the symbol of horror and cold dread into one of positive memories and warmth. And he'd made the first and most important step to take control over the image instead of letting it control or even rule over him anymore.

Focusing on the positive memories and thus taking active command of the mourning process - those were all described methods to deal with the death of a loved one in the books, though in written form they'd appeared more abstract or rather like emotional concepts and quite hard to fully comprehend.

Patrick had turned the whole matter into a real, tangible act. It was beautiful to see and it was first now she really understood what those books were all about – he'd just managed to illustrate that admirably.


She'd kissed him exuberantly and had given him a firm hug afterwards. "You, Patrick Jane, are a very smart man," she'd told him gently. "This is perfect. And never let anyone coerce you into hurrying along your mourning again, my love. You're doing it in the way absolutely perfect for yourself."

The next day they'd painted the whole room together in a deep indigo blue – Angela's favorite color. They'd also talked with the realtor and met the potential buyers – a married couple with three kids, one daughter who was already of age, and two sons. The parents were both actors and he was to play the lead role in a TV show as some kind of quirky detective.

Their talk with them had been a good one. They hadn't been intimidated by Patrick's rather inquisitive questioning and he was now firmly convinced, they weren't ghouls. They were absolutely aware of the tragic history of the house and accepted it. They'd read everything about it when they'd stumbled over the ad announcing the beautiful property to be on sale. The husband had admitted that he found it slightly exciting that the house had such a moving history, but essentially they'd just fallen in love with the place and intended to fill it with happy memories again.

Teresa had taken an immediate liking to them and had been relatively sure that Patrick felt the same way. Those two had been a couple for over twenty years and still they seemed to be so much in love it was touching. She sincerely hoped that it would be like that for her and Patrick. And they'd taken Jane's abrasive manner in stride, obviously aware of the real emotions hidden behind his rude behavior.

In the end the clincher had been the husband addressing Jane directly. "I promise you that we have the utmost respect for what this place must mean to you. I'm not gonna try to bore us all with meaningless phrases about us understanding your pain, because in reality we can't." He'd smiled warmly at Patrick. "But you're welcome to visit us anytime. You might even be able to give me some pointers about playing that detective. I hear, you are the CBI's best. So please feel free to come whenever you need to. I don't know, like for anniversaries and such."

His wife had nodded to that and Patrick had only managed a hoarse thank you. They'd signed the contract the same day and another painful chapter had been closed.


TBC

Only the epilog left now... but it'll be a long one...