Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor am I making any kind of profit from them.

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Jane had always believed Lisbon would be the one to arrest him when he killed Red John.

He'd planned for it, in fact. When he figured out where Red John was, he would kill him. Then he would let Lisbon know what he'd done and wait for her to come pick him up and take him to whatever detention center she deemed most appropriate.

That was essentially what had happened, in the end. He'd worried from time to time that Lisbon would somehow beat him to Red John and arrest him, or find out his plans and insist on coming with him when he confronted the man. He needed to stay one step ahead of Lisbon and two steps ahead of Red John. He was aware that if he faced Red John alone, there was a possibility that the killer could end his life before he was able to exact his revenge, but that was a risk he was going to have to take. He woke up in a cold sweat sometimes with the thought that Red John could capture Lisbon or one of the team and use them to lure him into a confrontation not on his own terms. Jane knew, and he suspected Red John knew, that the one thing that could stop him from taking the killer's life would be if he held Lisbon hostage and tried to exchange his life for hers. Not that Jane believed the man would honor any such bargain, but he would be powerless to resist any hope of saving Lisbon, no matter the cost.

He knew Red John knew far more about him than he'd ever managed to glean from his own years long pursuit. Red John could access CBI mainframes at will, murder inside the CBI walls, and had always had connections in the most surprising places. At some point, Jane had realized that Red John must have eyes inside the CBI. What took him much longer to admit to himself was that anyone with eyes inside the CBI would be able to see that he, Jane, had allowed himself to do what he'd sworn he'd never do again. He'd grown attached to another individual. Well, to several, even, considering the rest of the team, but particularly to one Teresa Lisbon. He wasn't sure when the critical transition happened, but looking back, he could see that he'd grown downright sentimental, giving her a pony on her birthday, bringing her pastries in the morning, lingering in her doorway to watch her after she rolled her eyes at him and told him to go away. Lisbon, of course, had no idea the effect she had on him, but he realized that in fact, his behavior was pretty transparent. Even Rigsby had given him a knowing smile once or twice after catching him at the aforementioned lingering in the doorway. If he'd been careless enough to expose himself to someone as generally unobservant as Rigsby, certainly Red John's minions had to be aware that Lisbon had become his own sort of Achilles' heel. Therefore, it was logical to expect that at some point, Red John would try to exploit that weakness. That effort would most likely end in Lisbon taken and bound by Red John, Jane helpless before them, with Red John holding all the power.

Jane had forced himself to acknowledge all possibilities, no matter how distasteful, because that was the only way he was going to be prepared for what he faced. Red John was a person who considered all angles before he acted, and if Jane was going to have any chance of catching him, he would have to do so as well.

But everything had gone according to plan, when it came to a head. He'd found a lead, and he'd driven two hundred miles to a gravel path that wound through ancient forests and ended at a beautiful wooden house overlooking the Northern California coastline. He'd broken in, and crept through the house in search of his quarry.

He found him in the basement, the strains of Bach leading him to the man he'd dedicated his life to finding for nearly ten years. He'd thought the music was coming from a stereo, but when he opened the door, the Cello Suite No. 1 in G major was coming from a Stradivarius cello in the hands of the man himself.

He played rather well, Jane thought.

He had a confused impression of dark hair streaked with silver, a trim but powerfully built man with militarily erect posture, coal black eyes, and a handsome face. His hands were strong and sure over the strings and bow of the cello. Jane had a wild moment of self doubt at that moment, wondering if he'd made a mistake and that this man was not Red John at all. But then the man had looked up at him like he was seeing an old friend. "Hello, Patrick," he greeted him. "I've been expecting you." He smiled. "Well. One of these days, anyway." He looked past him to the door. "I see you didn't bring Teresa with you today. That's a shame. I was so looking forward to spending some quality time with her." He set his cello aside and moved towards a shelf at the side of the room.

The words were meant to provoke, to distract him, but Jane did not rise to the bait. He had come here for one purpose, and one purpose only.

The way he figured it, Red John must have assumed that if Jane ever found him, he would be obsessed with getting answers, finding final proof for himself that the man before him really was Red John. That he would want to hear the man who killed his wife and daughter describe their last moments in this world, if only for the illusory sensation of being close to them for one final instant.

It was likely also that the man believed Jane would attack him physically. After all, would revenge be as satisfying if he were deprived the sensation of feeling his enemy's life blood drain out of him under his own hands?

The answer, of course, was no. Jane had wanted to stab him like he'd stabbed Charlotte and Angela, to twist the knife, and watch him die slowly, as he'd once told Lisbon. But in the end, he'd decided that he couldn't allow himself to be directed by his desires. He had to be smart. If he'd learned anything from Red John, it was that to be a truly efficient killer, one must be disciplined.

He had all the proof he needed, or he wouldn't have come. Hearing this man speak about his wife and child's deaths would not bring him closure, and if he were so foolish as to attack this man, he would undoubtedly lose any kind of physical altercation between the two of them. To allow the killer time to react was to give him time to distract, or to attack, and that would increase the possibility that the man might escape with his life. Jane had come here to end this hunt, and he wasn't going to waste any more time that the wolf might use to his own advantage. So he pulled a gun out of his pocket and shot Red John before the man had taken two steps towards whatever weapon he undoubtedly had concealed amongst his treasures and trophies.

He shot him three times. He was no marksman, and he needed to be sure that the man had no chance of rising from this final assault.

Once Jane was convinced he was dead, he set down the gun, pulled out his cell phone, and called Lisbon.

"I need you to come get me," he said without preamble.

"Are you okay?" her voice was frantic at the other end.

"I'm fine."

The line went dead and then she was there, gun drawn and coming down the steps to the basement. Not asking him where he was or needing time to drive two hundred miles up the California coast.

She was breathing heavily, and he realized she'd been running. She'd driven as fast as possible to get there, and she'd run through the house, trying to reach him before he reached Red John, but she hadn't been fast enough.

"Hello, Lisbon," he greeted her.

Her eyes came to rest on Red John. "He's dead?"

"Yes."

She nodded, still staring at the body.

"I killed him," he added unnecessarily.

Her face twisted, and his heart wrenched accordingly.

Everything had gone according to plan. He held his hands out to her, wrists together, ready for what came next.

"God dammit, Jane," she said, a single sob wrenching from her throat. She put her gun away and pulled out her handcuffs. She clasped them on his outstretched wrists, tears streaming down her face.

He'd always expected Lisbon to be the one to arrest him.

He just hadn't expected her to be crying when she did it.