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Reflections and meanderings and plenty of angst! Enjoy

"Where the hell is he?" Abbott stood behind his desk, leaning forward with his clenched hands on the desk.

"I don't know Sir", Lisbon answered starkly, her pale complexion and dark circles the only things showing her distress.

"You don't know. And why is that. Aren't you and Jane a couple still?"

Lisbon swallowed. "I don't know Sir", she repeated.

"You don't know where he is or whether you're together?"

"Either Sir."

Abbott took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. In a much gentler voice he spoke to his subordinate. "What's going on Agent Lisbon."

She licked her dry lips and took a breath. "Jane – I – we", she closed her eyes and took another breath. "He got very upset about something I told him – something that brought up past memories of his family. He – panicked and left."

"Left?"

"Yes Sir. He was staying at Kimball's apartment and left in the night. We don't know where he went."

Dennis could feel a headache coming on. He rubbed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak. It was only then that he noticed Lisbon's condition. "Are you alright?" he asked, suddenly concerned.

She shrugged. "I don't - ", she stopped. "I'm sorry. I'm not doing too well I guess. I'm worried."

"Do you think he's in danger?"

"In danger?" she frowned, looking confused.

"Is he in danger of – harming himself?"

"Oh. Oh no – I don't – I'm sure he wouldn't Sir." She hadn't thought of that but now wondered. No – no Jane wouldn't do that. He hadn't killed himself after what had happened to his wife and child so there's no way he would consider it now. But she wondered suddenly if it the hunt for Red John that had kept him going and stopped him from killing himself. Maybe now – "No, I'm sure he wouldn't", she repeated, as much to reassure herself as Abbott.

"I can have him arrested you know."

"I know but please Sir – don't. I think he just needs some time. This has been hard on him."

"Time. Well, I can give him a few days, but if he's not back by the weekend I'll have to issue a warrant."

"Thank you Sir. We'll find him before then, I'm sure."

"Agent Lisbon."

"Yes?"

"You look after yourself. I don't know what this is about, and I don't need to, but if it starts affecting your work I'll have to do something."

"Yes Sir."

Abbott shook his head. "And I'm worried about you Teresa. I don't want you to get hurt."

She attempted to smile, although it was difficult. "Thank you. I'll take care of myself, I promise." And that was a promise she was going to keep. She no longer had just herself to worry about.

"Everything okay?" Cho looked up as she made her way back to her desk.

"He wanted to know where Jane was. I told him I didn't know."

"You don't, do you?"

"No. Abbott's given him until the weekend to come back. Oh Kimball, what am I going to do?"

"You? You're going to try and relax and take it easy. I'm going to get some help and find Jane and kick his butt back here."

Teresa laughed, but at the same time rubbed her eyes, refusing to let any more tears fall. "What kind of help?"

"Who do we know who is really good at locating people?"

She looked puzzled for a moment, and then her face relaxed. "Not Wayne and Grace?"

"Of course. Who better. They're our friends – and Jane's too. I've already sent an email for them to contact me. It's still early in California but we should hear from them soon."

Part of Lisbon felt embarrassed that they'd have to engage their friends in the hunt for Jane, but part of her – a big part of her – felt relieved. Her old team, her real team would soon be back together. Sadly, it would probably be for one of the biggest challenges they'd ever faced; finding Patrick Jane and getting him to come home.

Jane landed in Los Angeles, his mind and body running on autopilot. He'd taken a cab directly from Cho's to the airport and had hopped the first available plane. He hadn't even bothered to pack a case and had nothing with him other than his wallet.

"I probably stink", he muttered.

"Pardon me?" an older lady in front of him in the rental car line turned enquiringly. "I'm sorry, did you say something to me?"

"What? Oh, no, sorry."

"That's okay. And no, I don't think you do."

"Pardon?" he asked, his brow folded in enquiry. He was having trouble thinking straight, his mind wandering from one thing to another. It was unusual for him – a feeling he hated. It had been like this for months after Red John and it terrified that it had come back.

"You don't – smell", the older lady told him with a smile. "You were worried."

His brows lifted in surprise, and for the first time in hours he smiled, ever though it was small one. "That's good to know."

She smiled again and turned back around, watching for an available clerk. Jane stood quietly behind her, feeling as if his life had righted itself just a tiny bit. And all it took was a woman telling him he didn't smell. Life was strange.

He drove out of the rental lot and immediately headed towards the Pacific Coast highway and to Malibu.

He arrived almost an hour later and pulled up in front of his house. He'd been here not that long ago, to retrieve the box from the attic with some of his daughter's things. He had only stayed long enough to get it and leave. This time he knew he needed to stay for much longer.

He made his way up to the front door – a path taken so often in the past. For many years he'd made his way to the front door, looking forward to being greeted by the woman who was the love of his life and his tiny daughter – his little miracle. Then there were the years that followed – years wracked with anguish and terrible grief. He would force himself to come this way as a penance, as a way of scourging himself for what he had done.

It was for that reason that he had never removed that horrible, macabre drawing – written in the blood of those he loved. Every time he looked at it, every time he slept under it he was reminded of his guilt and of his quest for revenge.

That symbol – that shocking and disturbing symbol – was, ironically, the thing that had kept him going, had kept him alive. If it hadn't been for that he was sure – no, he knew he would have killed himself.

But that face was a reminder, a reminder that he did not deserve death. He did not deserve a release from his pain or his guilt. He had caused the deaths of his family and was forever cursed to suffer for it – to live.

But then he had walked into that CBI building those many years ago and came into contact with the team –the team that became his team. And slowly, over time, he had begun to come alive, to heal surrounded by his team. He didn't know it at the time – and it wasn't a complete healing – but it was happening. And then, as he began to truly live again his teammates became his friends. He cared about them and they cared about him – even if at times they wanted to shoot him. Suddenly there was something more than revenge and guilt – there was companionship, and laughter and trust and – friendship.

And then – and then there was Teresa Lisbon. She had become a friend – someone, often the only one, he could truly trust, who knew him. She knew him more than any one else ever had – even Angela.

It was the first time he admitted it to himself and he felt a terrible ache in his chest to even think it. But Angela was the love of his young self – his arrogant, ambitious, egotistical self. Oh, he had had his good points and Angela saw those. That was the reason he loved her so much. But she hadn't really seen the bad, she hadn't seen the whole man.

Angela was a beautiful, loving soul who only saw the good in people. She was a dreamer and had wanted nothing so much as a home and family and a life with the man she loved. Even though she had grown up in the harsh reality of the carny life, she was an idealist.

Looking back Patrick wondered, for the first time, why her goodness hadn't inspired him to be a better man than he had been. Maybe it was because she didn't ask anything of him. She believed in him, loved him, practically worshipped him – but she didn't push him, or hold him accountable or kick him in the ass when he needed it. She had loved him, but hadn't forced him to be better.

He couldn't help but think of her with love and with a sadness that he knew would always remain. If there was anyone who didn't deserve such a horrible death it was Angela. She had been a beautiful soul and her death was tragic.

But his life had gone on – for the first time he could think those words. He was still alive – and he had met a woman who was as different from Angela as could be. She was tougher, harder and had seen the worst life had to offer. But for some strange reason she did make him the better man. She wouldn't let him get away with anything. She held a mirror to him and let him see the good as well as the bad. And she loved him – not because she saw only the good in him, but because she saw all of him; she saw him and she knew him and she still loved him.

He looked up the stairs at that door – the door that had permanently changed his life. The door that had destroyed what he had and who he was. For the first time he wondered if maybe it had changed him for the better.

But to think that was horrible. It meant that Angela and Charlotte had to die for him to change, to turn from his life swindling good people into something better, more meaningful.

He took a step up – towards that door. But did it mean that? Just because he was a better man, or at least he thought he was, does that really mean they had to die for this to happen?

He took another step. What would he have been like if they had lived? He would never know and it really didn't matter because that was a life that would never be lived. This reality, his reality was all there was.

Another step – closer to the door. So what did it all mean? How could he reconcile where he was now with the deaths of the two he loved most in the world. How could sweet, innocent Charlotte have to give her life so her father could be a better man? That was vile. Something not even to be contemplated.

One more step. But what if he didn't think of it that way. What if it wasn't their deaths that made him better, but their lives? He closed his eyes briefly. Why had he done what he had done? Why had he turned away from pretending to be psychic? Why had he stopped conning people – at least for profit? Why had he made it his life's work to stop evil and provide justice for good people? It wasn't because his wife and child died – it was because he had to show their lives meant something.

One more step forward. By no longer pretending to be something he was not he honored Angela's wishes to get out of the business. By being someone who believed in loyalty and compassion he would prove that he deserved to have a daughter as lovely and innocent as Charlotte. He would honor her short life by making sure that he could be proud of who he was, proud to be called her father.

It was not their deaths – but who they were that had made him a better man. Their loss almost destroyed him, but his friends – and especially his new and very different love – had brought him back to life, to the realization that it was by living fully that he could keep Angela and Charlotte alive, in his heart if no where else. And by letting go – if he could – of the anger and hate and guilt, he could remember them the way they should be remembered; with love and light and joy.

He stood now in front of the door. He knew what was on the other side – had seen it every night in his dreams since that fateful day. It lived with him always.

He realized suddenly and shockingly why he'd come. When he'd left Cho's he's been driven to come to his house, to this room. It was because that wall, that symbol is what had kept him alive all these years. And in his panic and fear he had needed to find something, anything to keep him going.

He still had moments, those moments when he would relive this walk up the stairs, when he wondered if he would be happier if he ended it. They were few and far between – less and less now – and never serious but at Teresa's words he'd felt that longing, that longing for darkness and peace. That had driven him to see that symbol – to find something to keep him alive.

He pushed open the door. There it was – that horrible, terrible, dreadful drawing. The face that had been his reality for too many years

Jane walked forward slowly, staring at the wall. When he reached the mattress he carefully lowered himself down, although he kept his eyes trained on the wall. "You're dead Red John", he murmured. "Dead and you can never hurt me or those I love ever again."

He lay in that room for hours, staring, watching, gazing at the faded red face. It was only as the outside light began to fade that Jane breathed. He pushed himself to his feet and turned towards the door. He gave one last look back and then walked down the stairs.

He returned a short while later, something in his hands. He walked up those stairs, this time knowing exactly why and what he had to do.

He entered the room, kicking the door back as hard as he could. He set down what he was holding and looked at that face, one last time.

"I won", he whispered. Then louder. "I won – and you will not defeat me. I loved my wife and my daughter and I will remember them with joy. And I will live again – I will love again and you will not stop me."

Taking off his jacket he tossed it in the corner. He then spent the next few moments getting everything ready. Finally he stepped up to the wall, paint roller in hand.

"There you go you bastard" he said as he began to cover the face. "You go to hell!"

It wasn't long before the face was no longer visible, but still Jane kept painting. He applied coat after coat of pain, burying the face that he refused to let defeat him. Yes, Red John – no, not Red John, a mystical killer, but Thomas McAllister, pervert, sadist and butcher was dead, dead by Jane's hand. He would never again haunt his nightmares.

He was finally finished when the paint ran out. He stood back and smiled. The wall was bare. It was a fresh canvass on which anything could be put.

And he no longer needed it to stay alive. Because life was not about guilt or vengeance but about love and faith and commitment. It was about accepting and being accepted, regardless of the faults you carried. It was about someone who knew you and yet still loved you. It was about Teresa.

He swallowed. But was it about a child? He'd refused to think about that even once through the day. As soon as he imagined a child he could feel himself begin to panic. He still didn't think he could do it, didn't think he could be a father.

But he had no choice. It was already done and it was going to happen, with or without him a child would be born.

He leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. He couldn't do it – not now, but still, he had no choice. He swallowed and straightened himself. He was tired and couldn't think any more tonight. Looking around once more he turned and left the room. He walked unhurriedly down the stairs and, for the first time in years, began to walk through his house.

He found the tricycle that had sat for so many years and walked up to it. Kneeling down he remembered how excited Charlotte was when he bought it for her. He'd taken her outside and pushed her on the driveway, her smiles and laughter echoing in the warm afternoon air.

He could give it to his new son or daughter when the time was right. He gripped the handle tightly – could he do that? He didn't know. He stood up slowly and finished his tour of the house.

It was a beautiful house. He and Angela had loved it the first time they'd seen it. He hadn't wanted to think of selling it – there were too many memories – but he didn't know if he could ever live here again, also because of the memories.

He should sell it. He was sure there was someone out there that wouldn't care about its history. It was on a prime piece of real estate and was worth a fortune.

No, for now he couldn't do it. He'd keep it, but no longer as a shrine or as a place of penance, but as a place to remember wonderful times with his wife and daughter.

Tired now, he debated whether to stay or go and find a hotel. There was no food in the house and only the one mattress. In the end he decided to sleep elsewhere. He was emotionally exhausted and needed to get away for a while.

"He flew to LA first thing this morning", Grace told her that afternoon. "He also rented a car. We're still looking but so far he hasn't made any other charges on his credit card."

"He's probably gone to his house", Lisbon said quietly.

"Teresa, are you okay?" Grace sounded terribly worried, not liking how her friend was sounding. "What's going on?"

"I told you, Jane was upset and left. Abbott's breathing fire and I said I'd find him."

"But why was he upset? About what? Come on, I'm your friend and both Wayne and I are here for you."

Teresa sighed into the phone. She still felt funny saying anything, even to her closest friends. It wasn't just that she wanted to keep the pregnancy a secret for now, it was that it felt like a betrayal of Jane to tell everyone how he'd panicked.

"I'm pregnant", she finally blurted, knowing that, in the end, she needed someone she cared about to know and to be there for her. Cho had been wonderful, but Grace was a woman and would understand all the emotions running through her.

"Oh Teresa", Grace murmured. "And that's what upset Jane?"

"Mmm hmm. He panicked Grace. It brought back all sorts of things and he said – he didn't want children. He was angry at me."

"Angry? Did you get pregnant on purpose?"

"No! Of course not. It was an accident I would never do that to him."

"Did you tell him that?"

"I tried, but I don't know if he even heard me. He ran out almost immediately."

"That idiot!" Grace muttered. "We'll still keep watch and if he used his card we'll find him. Uh is there anything else we can do?"

Lisbon paused briefly, deep in thought. "Do you think -" she stopped. "Never mind."

"No, there's no such thing as 'never mind'. What is it?"

"I just wondered if you could – would you mind -"

"Going and seeing him?"

"Yes", Lisbon answered in a rush. "Please? I don't think he should be alone."

"Okay. Look, we'll wait to see if he used his card, then we'll know where he is. At that point we can fly down to LA and go see him."

"Oh God Grace – I hate to ask this of you."

"Pshst",Grace made a rude noise on the other end of the phone. "What are friends for? And it's not like it's a long way away. We can be there in a little over an hour by plane."

"I'll pay for your tickets", Lisbon told her, refusing to argue about it. "Just – let me know when you find him."

"I will, of course. Now don't worry. We'll get this all sorted out and everything will be fine."

Lisbon hung up the phone, for the first time that day feeling a bit hopeful. If there was anyone who could appeal to Jane's better nature it was Grace.

He was dozing off, exhausted from everything that had happened the last two days. He had managed to grab a bite to eat in a Denny's across the street from the motel – a horrible meal but filling and had tried watching a bit of TV to get his mind off things. Now he was ready for a good long sleep. He just prayed he wouldn't be visited by nightmares in the night.

The pounding on the door woke him instantly. He was so disoriented that he couldn't figure out what was happening or who it could be . "Just a minute" he muttered, making his way to the door. "Hold your horses!"

Unfortunately there was no peephole so instead he had to open the door, the inside chain still on.

"Rigsby! Van Pelt! What are you guys doing here?"

"Let us in and we'll tell you"

Jane released the chain and invited his friends into his room. "Okay you're in, what's up?"

"What's up is this!" Wayne said ferociously, and he hit Jane in the face.