He wasn't used to thinking about how his actions might affect others. His father had drilled into him, at a very early age, that one should never question oneself or worry about anyone else. Just go for what you wanted and damn the consequences, had been Alex' motto in life.

This approach to life had brought Jane success – initially, but it had also gotten him into more trouble than he could remember. Fortunately, most of the time he'd been able to wiggle out of that trouble relatively painlessly. That was another thing his father had taught him.

Unfortunately, others weren't always that lucky. And that was no truer than in the case of his wife and daughter. Those two innocents had died because of his arrogance and desire for fame. They had been brutally murdered because he had thought he could use his skills to taunt a serial killer and hadn't bothered to consider the possible ramifications.

He lived with what he had done every day, every second of every day. He was filled with guilt and horror at the consequences of his carelessness.

He snorted softly. But even his guilt hadn't changed him, hadn't taught him anything. No, just like before – his life was now divided into "before" and "after" – just like before, he didn't think, he didn't consider. But now what he wanted wasn't fame or money, but revenge. He wanted to find and kill the man who had destroyed his family. And again, just like Alex had taught him, he went for what he wanted and to hell with anything else.

Well, this time it appeared as if the consequences had taken him straight to hell. But the horrible thing was – the thing which filled him with even more guilt than he already carried, was that they hadn't just taken him, but Lisbon too.

He looked over at the unconscious woman beside him and prayed, not to a God he no longer believed in, but to the universe, to anything good that was left in it, that she was okay.

He couldn't do anything to help her, which was killing him. He had no idea how long they'd been here, although from the faint light coming in through the crack in the walls he figured it must be early morning. It had probably been four or five hours since the most stupid criminals it had ever been his misfortune to meet had dumped him here. They had brought an unconscious Lisbon in a couple of hours later. She had obviously tried to find him and been caught unawares, just like him.

He heard what sounded like a groan and glanced sharply, or at least tried to glance sharply at Teresa. It was only as things swam before his eyes, and he heard another groan, that he realized he might be the one making the sound.

"You're losing it Patrick," he muttered. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, suddenly wanting to tune everything out. The guilt over what he'd done to Teresa was almost more than he could bear.

A few moments later, at least he thought it was since his sense of time was pretty messed up, he heard another sound. It was different than the previous groan and caused him to open his eyes.

He glanced around the small, rustic shack until his eyes focused on the woman sharing his predicament. "Lisbon?" he croaked. No sound actually left his lips so he cleared his throat and tried again.

"Lisbon?"

Another noise and this time a stirring of her body.

"Lisbon?" he practically shouted – although the sound that left his lips more closely resembled a hiss. "Wake up."

Another groan, a turning of her head, a clenching of her hand and then … nothing.

"Teresa!" he said almost frantically. "Wake up – please?"

Another movement and the next thing he knew he was looking into brilliant green, albeit unfocused, eyes. She stared at him for a few seconds as if trying to place who he was. He worried, for a brief moment, that she'd suffered a brain injury due to the conk on the head she'd received, and now didn't know him.

That was until he saw recognition and then awareness – followed by irritation and then downright anger enter her eyes. Yup, Lisbon was back.

"Jane?" she snapped, although the effect was somewhat ruined by the croak that came out rather than the forceful exclamation she'd probably been intending. She slowly pushed herself up. "What the hell happened?" she continued as she tried to move to a more dignified position.

"Uh -" He was so happy to see her conscious, hell, to see her alive that he couldn't speak.

"I told you not to go looking for Ziegler on your own. I told you to let me know before you did anything stupid. When will you ever learn?" She sighed and patted herself down, clearly looking for her weapon and her phone, in that order. When she found neither she looked up at him again. "So, why aren't you saying anything? No arrogant justification for your actions? No pointing out that you were right about the killer all along? What Jane?" She continued to glare at him in the muted shadows of the shack.

"No," he sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall. "I'm sorry," he said softly, his eyes closing.

Lisbon looked at him sharply. This wasn't like him. "Jane?" she asked, this time more softly. "What happened?"

"Uh – I just wanted to see where he was going," he told her softly. "I was following – at a safe distance I might add. I started to call you - really," he defended himself at her disbelieving snort. "But the next thing I knew I heard a sound -"

"A sound? What kind of a sound?"

He sighed, suddenly feeling so tired. He just wanted to sleep. "A kind of – popping sound."

"What was it?" she frowned, staring at him intently.

"A gunshot," he murmured, his voice getting quieter. "Silencer."

"A gunshot?" she said incredulously. "Was someone shot?"

"Mmm," he nodded, beginning to feel as if he was floating. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he knew that was a bad thing, even though he really couldn't get up the energy to worry about it.

"Jane?" her voice suddenly sounded scared and he could hear her as she scuttled over to him. "Oh my God!" Her exclamation was followed by frantic hands, touching him, pulling back his jacket. "Jane, why didn't you tell me? Oh God, you've been shot!"

"Mmm hmm," he agreed, his body starting to list to the side. "Sorry," he muttered.

"What are you apologizing for?" she asked, although she was pulling up his shirt as she spoke. "You're bleeding!"

He cracked open his eyes at that, a small frown on his face. Wasn't he supposed to be bleeding? He rather thought that's what happened when you got shot.

"I'm going to help you lie down and then I'm going to try and bandage this up. We have to stop the bleeding."

"Kay," he muttered, although he didn't move, couldn't move.

"Come on Jane," her voice told him. She sounded so loving, so gentle. It had been a long time since someone had spoken to him in that tone of voice. He sighed softly. It was almost worth getting shot.

The next thing he knew a sharp pain stabbed through him – turning his world into a miasma of pain and heat. He groaned – it was probably more of a whimper but he refused to acknowledge that. A man had to have some semblance of pride after all.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed as she lowered him to the ground. "I know it hurts but I have to bandage this wound. God, how did this happen?"

"Man – shot me," he muttered. Hadn't he already told her that?

She snorted and he admitted to himself that he loved when she did that. It was so Lisbon.

He heard the sound of ripping – he really hoped it wasn't his jacket – and the next thing he knew there was more pain. The good news was that it lasted only a brief few seconds before he faded out.

By the time he woke up Teresa had finished bandaging his wound and he wondered briefly whose clothes had been sacrificed, finally deciding it didn't really matter. His stomach and side were throbbing and hot, but at least it felt like the bleeding may have stopped. He wondered idly if she had stopped it in time or if he'd lost too much blood. For some reason he didn't seem to care.

"Jane? How are you feeling?"

He lifted his eyelids and tried to peer up at her. How had his head ended up in her lap? Before he had a chance to figure that out, everything came into focus and he found himself looking into a pair of worried green eyes. He swallowed. He didn't think he'd ever told her how much her eyes meant to him. It was a cliché to say they were the windows to the soul, but in Teresa's case it was true.

He could always tell how she really felt just by looking into those eyes. He knew when she was angry at him, or when she pretended to be angry because she thought that was what he needed.

He could also tell when she felt sympathy for him – when her heart ached for him. But she rarely said anything, for which he was grateful. He didn't do sympathy, or gratitude or any of those things. He didn't deserve them No – he deserved anger and derision and disgust.

But if he was honest with himself – which now days he tried to be – sympathy and gratitude and caring from Lisbon made his life a little more bearable. He didn't know when living purely for revenge had turned to living for revenge and to stay close to Teresa, to bask in the warmth of her light.

He would regret dying without having caught Red John, but at least he was dying in her presence, in that light. There were worse ways to go.

"Patrick Jane!" she said sharply, loudly. "Don't you dare die on me," she told him. It seemed as if she was a mind reader now. "You will not do this, do you hear? So open your eyes and pull yourself together and help me get out of here."

He continued to drift, listening to her voice but not paying any attention to her words. He felt her hand gently skim over his hair and sighed, wondering if she would hold his hand if he asked. He tended to avoid touching people because it brought back home how much he missed human connection – but in Teresa's case he would, and often did, make an exception.

He liked to touch her. In fact, if things had been different, he would have liked to touch her in a much different way. He would like to touch all of her.

Oops – better get your mind off of that Patrick. Can't go there – ever. You don't deserve her and you can't betray Angela.

But Angela is gone, a small voice somewhere in his head said. You wouldn't be betraying her. She won't ever know.

Didn't matter, he told himself. When he married Angela – against the advice of everyone – he had known it was forever. He was like that. Once he gave his heart he never took it back and he had given it all to the girl who had followed him around for so many years at the carnival. Their love had grown over time – and although they were young, both of them knew it was lasting.

But the truth was that Jane rarely allowed himself to love – his father had drilled into him that that way led to pain and was something to be avoided. But he had enough of his mother in him to know that his was a nature that wanted to love and one that was utterly and completely faithful once it found it. He'd given his heart to Angela and it was hers for the rest of his life – wasn't it? A picture of Teresa popped into his mind.

But he instantly shied away from that and instead thought about his Mother. She had died when he was ten but he still remembered her. She had been the most important person in his life and he knew, if there was any goodness in him, it was because of her. Her only weakness, at least the only one he could see from his memories, was her unshakeable love for Alex Jane.

He had been nothing but a scoundrel who had seduced a young girl, married her and then dragged her around the country as he searched for his next big con.

Patrick had never been able to figure out what his mother saw in him. Oh, it was true Alex could be charming when he wanted to be, but a more selfish man it would be hard to find. He was pretty sure his mother's life must have been hard. But she had remained faithful and loving to the moment of her death.

Jane had no idea what had happened to his father. He'd left home at 18 and hadn't seen his father in years. He figured he must be dead – probably knifed to death in some back ally somewhere. If that were the case it was horribly ironic. Vowing from the time he was fifteen to never do what his father did he was pretty sure he was going to die like him.

He thought again about Angela and it hit him – not for the first time – that he'd married a woman like his mother. Angela had been a good woman, a good person and yet she'd fallen in love with him – a scoundrel like his father.

No, that wasn't quite true. Although he was arrogant and a con man he had loved her – with all his heart and soul. And Charlotte had been the joy of his life. Even though his actions had gotten them killed, he had loved them dearly and had told them that in every way he knew how.

It didn't appease his guilt one bit, but he could honestly say that his family had been happy. He remembered the times of laughter and joy that had existed before he had destroyed them.

And his mind shifted back to Teresa. She was a good woman too – and strangely reminded him even more of his mother.

"Jane?" A voice thankfully interrupted his wayward thoughts. "Jane – come on, wake up. You're going to be fine. Don't do this, okay?"

Teresa! He's almost forgotten she was here, with him. Why was she here? And where was here? He opened his eyes, blinking at how bright it seemed.

"Patrick?" she said softly, leaning down. "Come on."

Patrick? Her use of his first name warmed him to his toes, until he realized it probably meant he was doing really badly.

"You – only call me – Patrick cause I'm – dyin'," he told her softly.

He couldn't quite tell what the sound that she made meant, although when he was finally able to focus on her eyes he was pretty sure they were full of tears.

"No, I called you Patrick so you would listen to me," she told him fiercely. "You were ignoring me when I called you Jane."

"Oh." There was a long pause. "Like it – when you – call me – Patrick. No one – does, anymore."

This time he was positive he heard her make a noise that sounded distinctly like a sob. Not Teresa – no, she was too tough. He tried to see her again and was comforted by the angry look on her face. That was more like it.

"Sorry," he told her again. "You should – go."

"Are you kidding?" she said defiantly. "If I leave you here to just – die – think of all the paperwork. Nope, you got us into this mess and you're not going to get out of it so easily. Now come on. Move your butt and let's get out of here."

His eyebrows went up. Did she really think he was going to get up and just walk – hell, she did! "Teresa," he groaned. "It hurts."

"Of course it does." No sympathy there. "You were shot – due to your own reckless behavior. So come on, let's get out of here." She carefully moved out from underneath him – he suddenly missed her warmth and soft lap – and slowly stood.

He had to blink repeatedly to clear his eyes, but when they were at least somewhat able to discern what was around him he saw her standing with her hand held out to him.

"Come on," she took his hand, but then squatted down and put her arm under his shoulders. "It's going to hurt but your wound isn't bleeding and we've got to get out of here before someone comes back."

That was the one thing that got him to move. He didn't care for himself, pretty sure that he was already dead, but he wanted Teresa to get away.

"Go," he gasped as she tried to help him up.

"Don't be stupid," was all she answered. "Now come on Jane. Don't be a baby."

"A – baby?" he gasped. "I've been shot."

"We've already established that," she told him matter-of-factly. "Come on – let's get you up."

He groaned pitiably as he tried to stand. He could feel her flinch every time he made a sound, proving that she was not as unemotional as she tried to appear. In fact he knew she was both worried and upset but was trying to keep it together to get him – them – out of this. So naturally he milked it for all it was worth – allowing himself to groan and whimper up a storm. Not that that was fake – but he could have controlled it if he'd really tried – he thought.

As she got him to his feet he was never more proud of her than he was at this moment. She was the strongest woman he'd ever known and yet had a core of compassion that ran deep. She also had the most beautiful green eyes he'd ever seen.

"Patrick – let's go."

"Go?" he asked stupidly. Wasn't standing enough?

"We're going to walk out of here and get help. You can do it. I'll hold onto you."

"Kay," he agreed, although he was so sleepy all he wanted to do was lie down. Maybe he'd take a nap with Charlotte. She liked it when he did that.

"Charlotte?" he mumbled.

"Oh God Jane," Teresa whispered, her voice breaking. "Come on, let's go."

"Kay," he agreed again. The sharp stab of pain startled him to awareness. His eyes opened and it took a few seconds but he soon recognized the little shack. "Still here?"

"Yes, we are, but we won't be if you get your ass moving."

He sighed. She was not going to let up. "Teresa – Lisbon, did anyone – ever – tell you, you're – very stubborn?"

"Yes," she grinned, moving forward with him tightly held at her side. "All the time. I'm Irish you know."

"Mmm – s'm I."

"Yes, and you're even more stubborn than me. Now move it Jane. At this rate we'll reach the door next month."

"Stubborn and impatient," he muttered, taking one step at a time. It hurt but that didn't seem to matter to Teresa. "Sadist," he murmured.

"What?" she asked, not really paying attention. She was trying to get them to the door and was doing it with guts, determination and a one-track mind.

"I said – you're a – sadist. Rigsby would be nicer."

"Mmm – if Rigsby was here he'd pick you up and carry you."

"Cho?"

"Cho would kick your ass and then have Rigsby pick you up and carry you. Now get moving."

"Grace?"

She sighed but kept moving – knowing he was trying to distract himself from the pain. "Grace would say nice, encouraging things-"

"- and get Rigsby – to carry – me," Jane panted. "Nothing – personal, but I wish Rigsby – were here."

"You're doing great Patrick – just a couple more steps and we're outside."

"And then?" he asked.

She shrugged, which had the effect of almost toppling him over. Damn but he was weak and shaky.

"And then we will see what we shall see."

"Isn't that – the other side – of the – mountain."

"Yes, well this feels like mountain climbing to me."

"Me too," he agreed breathlessly.

He heard her little snort of triumph when they reached the door. That sound was quickly followed by a huff of irritation – he needed to catalogue all the different Lisbon sounds – when the door was found to be locked.

"Let me," he murmured, although he continued to stand there and do nothing.

"Jane?"

"What? Oh, sorry. I need - something." He frowned. What did he need? Lisbon, he needed Lisbon. He moved his head so that he was looking at -"

"Here," she tried to hand him something.

He frowned again and his eyes tracked down until they focused on her lips. He'd already noted her gorgeous eyes, but he couldn't forget that amazing mouth either. She really did have the most kissable –

"Jane! Pay attention. Here, take this." She reached out and took his hand, holding it palm up, and then dropped something into it.

"What?" he squinted down.

"It's a paper clip. See if you can open the door."

"Paper clip? Why do – you have a -"

"It doesn't matter." She sighed. "Look, I was filling out some forms and the pages were clipped together. I must have put the clip in my pocket. Now can you please try and pick the lock?"

He wanted to say something – something about Teresa always telling him not to pick locks, that it was illegal – but he couldn't quite get the words out. Instead he dutifully moved his hand to the door – the hand with the bent paperclip, and tried to do what she asked.

It took longer than normal since his eyes really didn't seem to want to work, nor did his hand. But eventually he heard a click and before he'd even had a chance to draw back, Teresa had opened the door.

"Good – now let's go."

She drew him forward but this time he wasn't sure if he was going to make it. His knees had turned into something resembling jello and were sure to give out at any time. He wanted to slide to the ground and rest, hopefully with his head once more in Teresa's lap.

Except he knew she wouldn't let him. "Sadist," he again told her. She barely glanced at him, although he did see the two grooves between her eyes. She was frowning and he wondered what he'd done this time.

"You – mad?" he breathed.

"What?" Her sudden stop almost catapulted him to the ground, only her arms flung around him saved him. "Mad? I'm not mad - I just want to get out of here and get you to a hospital."

"Meh – hate – hospitals."

"I know you do," she half-laughed, half sobbed. "But I'm afraid you need one now. You have a bullet in you."

"Really?" he looked at her in surprise although a moment later it came back to him. "Right – bullet. I told you he was the killer."

"No you didn't," Teresa answered. "You just said he smelled funny. That does not make him a killer."

"Ye – sduz," he muttered as he stumbled. Again she kept him upright. "Pine tar."

"Pine tar? You mean the stuff they use in soap."

"Mmm hmm. Lisbon – stop, please," he panted. He was losing sight of why they were walking. All he knew was that he needed to sit down. He wanted to rest on his couch in the bullpen and sleep.

"No Jane – we have to keep going. Tell me about the pine tar."

"Pine – tar? What?"

"You said the Ziegler smelled of pine tar. Why did that give away that he was the murderer?"

"Horses," he said, his voice so low she barely heard him.

"Yes – we found the murder victim in the Rosemead stables – but there was no evidence that Ziegler had been there – Jane!"

He'd hit the end of his rope, he was done for, on his last leg, and any other expression he could think of – which right now was none. The pain was too much, he could not longer see anything but spots and he was tired, so tired. "Sleep," he slurred as he rested on the cool grass. He thought he heard something, he knew he felt something – warm hands trying to pull him up.

"An'jla?" he whispered.

"Patrick, come on," his wife whispered. "You have to get up. Please, for me."

"Tired m'dear," he said softly, feeling her caress his cheek. "Wanna – sleep."

"I know," she told him lovingly. "But you can't, not yet. You just have to walk a little bit farther and then you can rest."

"No – like't here," he told her. He felt warm and safe and loved, something he'd missed for so long. "Don't go," he told her. "Stay."

"Oh Patrick," her voice broke. "Please wake up and come with me."

"With you?" He tried to open his eyes, tried to see her. It had been so very long but now – all he had to do was move and he could be with her again. He could be with Angela. "Charlotte?" he mumbled.

A sob sounded in his ear. Oh no – was something wrong with their little girl? He tried to open his eyes, tried to reach out to Angela. "Wha's wrong – Charlotte."

"Nothing," her voice soothed, although he could hear the sadness in it. "She's safe Patrick. She's happy. But you need to stand up – you need to go with Teresa."

He frowned. Teresa? Suddenly the picture he held in his mind of Angela began to morph into that of a dark haired, green-eyed woman. "Teresa?"

"Yes – that's right. Please Ja – Patrick, please?"

Angela wanted him to go with Teresa. The thought should have confused him, but right now all he wanted to do was make his wife happy. Maybe then she would forgive him.

For what? He didn't know, didn't want to know so instead he opened his eyes.

"Jane." The word was said in relief and he stared at the face hovering above him. "Can you stand?"

"Angela?" he whispered. He tried to look around but was too weak. Instead he kept his eyes on – Teresa. He saw her eyes fill with tears and her hand impatiently wipe them away.

"She's safe with Charlotte– but she wants you to get up."

He nodded. Okay – if that's what she wanted… he tried to move but gave up when it became clear it was impossible. The next moment, however, he felt a small hand press into his back and then he was being helped to his feet.

"There you go," her voice said calmly. "Good job. Now let's go."

Again he began to walk forward, but this time he was unaware of anything expect the sound of her voice and the feel of her arm around him. He didn't know what she said, but he kept moving, knowing it would make her happy. He couldn't analyze who the "her" was. Angela and Teresa had become blurred in his mind.

"Oh thank God!" Lisbon's words finally cut through the heavy fog that seemed to envelope him and he wondered briefly why she sounded so relieved. A second later he heard noises and shouts coming from somewhere close. He also heard a tiny whimper from the woman holding on to him.

"Boss! You okay?" one of the voices called.

"Rigsby – I'm fine but Jane is hurt badly. We need an ambulance."

"There's one on the way – it should be here any minute. Here, let me help."

Jane felt himself being moved and the next thing he knew he was on the ground, something under his head. A moment later something else covered him.

"You're safe now Jane," her voice told him softly. "Just hang on and the ambulance will be here to take you to the hospital." A small, slightly roughened hand grasped his.

"Don't like -"

"- hospitals, I know," she laughed softly. "Just promise me you'll hang on!"

"Pine tar – used for horses – hooves."

"What is he saying?" Cho's voice broke through the sounds of the night.

"It's how he figured out that Ziegler was the killer," Teresa said quietly. "Put out an APB on him and his bodyguard."

"Will do Boss. Jane gonna be okay?"

"Gonna be – fine – Cho. An'jla's waitin." Of course he didn't see the sharp looks that passed between his friends but he did feel his hand being squeezed tightly. He tried to squeeze back but was just too exhausted.

"You take it easy Jane," Cho said softly, his hand gently patting his shoulder. "You're gonna be okay."

"God – what happened?" Rigsby asked quietly as Cho moved away. "He looks -"

"He's going to be fine," Lisbon said, almost angrily. "He just needs to rest up for a few days."

"All right – if you say so boss." Rigsby's voice sounded less than sure, but he knew when to push his superior and when to leave it alone. "I think I hear the ambulance. I'll go send them here."

"Thanks," Teresa murmured. There was a moment of silence and then Jane felt someone – no her gently stroking his head. "Don't you ever do something like this again Jane, you hear me? Next time tell me when you decide to go after a killer. At least that way I can protect you."

"Kay," he agreed. He didn't quite understand the laugh that met his words, and tried to open his eyes to see what was so funny.

"You're not going to keep that promise, are you?" she asked.

He would – at least he'd try. But sometimes he really didn't know the answer and didn't want to reveal anything until he was sure and that meant that he had to check things out – which sometimes got him into trouble. But for her he'd really, really try.

Her hand pulled away and he suddenly felt bereft. He tried to find it again but before he had a chance hands – not her hands – were roaming all over him. The noise grew and there were shouts and hands pulling apart his clothes and sticking things into his arms and –

"Ow!" his eyes shot open and he glared at the man staring down at him. He tried to jerk his arm away but was stopped by the same man.

"Don't fight us Mr. Jane," the man said. "We're just trying to help you. I have to put in an IV – you've lost a lot of blood."

IV? What was he talking about? And what did he mean about blood? He wanted to sleep – so why wasn't anyone letting him back on his couch.

"Ow," he said again but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him, which was strange as they were all swarming around him, and poking and prodding and sticking things into him. "Stop," he coughed out.

"We're just about ready to transport," a new voice called. "I can take one person with us."

"I'll go."

Jane sighed in relief. Lisbon! He should have known that she'd be there for him. He just hoped she'd hold his hand.

Half-way to the hospital his body had finally had enough. The pain, the guilt, the trauma all overwhelmed him. As he drifted off he could feel her hand holding his. He smiled.

Enough or epilogue?