Author's Note: This is going to be a two-parter, and is set sometime in Season 3, after Episode 6 (since that is all I have seen). Since I probably won't be able to see more for a while (so please don't spoil anything!), the second chapter may end up being slightly AU. Please review!

There is an unlicensed gun in the CBI attic.

It is sitting inside a wooden box, on the floor, surrounded by scattered papers and a leather journal, opened, with scribbled notes. There are a few scattered pens littering both the floor and the desk, and one has even fallen into the space under the floorboards that the wooden box had previously occupied. The makeshift bed is empty, the chair is empty, but on the floor in the corner Lisbon is hunched over, frozen, as she stares at the weapon in front of her.

She hadn't meant to find it. She had gone upstairs to look for Jane, and had found the leather journal tucked under the pillow, one corner sticking out temptingly. Haltingly, knowing just how unethical her actions were but unable to control them, she had reached for the journal, opened it to a random page, and had seen Jane's unedited thoughts and ideas, proposals and suggestions about what Red John had said to him after Kristina Frye had gone missing.

She had dropped the book, stunned at his betrayal. He had lied to her before, he lied to her quite frequently, actually, but he had never lied to her about Red John. She had known he was keeping something from her, but something this big? The journal had tumbled to the floor, scattering loose papers. They had glided through the air slowly and landed silently on the floor, deceptively light despite the heavy thoughts. She had bent down to retrieve them, thoughts whirling a mile a minute, and when her fingers had bumped against a loose floorboard she had absent-mindedly tried to right it, then frowned as it didn't settle into place. She had looked down, noticed there was something underneath it, and had slowly pulled out the wooden box, the journal all but forgotten in her curiosity. She had knelt on the floor in front of the box, and skimmed her fingers lightly over it, somehow apprehensive about opening it. She had flicked her thumb against the opening once, twice, not entirely certain if she even wanted to know what was in there; then the third time there was a click, and her fingers were automatically pushing up the top.

Her mind had gone curiously blank as she reached inside and pulled out a gun. Her hand had automatically held it in the correct position; it had fit perfectly, and she had turned it over and over, looking at it from all angles, before her thoughts had returned full force and she dropped the gun, practically threw it against floor, and scooted backwards.

She sits in the corner now, her arms hunched over her knees and her eyes staring vacantly at the glaring weapon. She is shaking, she realizes in the back of her mind, but she can't bring herself to move. She feels sick, feels like she might throw up at any second. There is a strange sort of paralyzing flush flowing down her body; first her head feels an uncomfortable pressure, then her shoulders get hot and stiff, until it spreads down and she feels like her lungs are being constricted. She wonders idly if she is in shock. Her knuckles, clenched together, are stark white. Her heart is racing.

The gun looks out of place here, she thinks detachedly, like it doesn't belong. It seems to have its own presence, its own being, like it is taking over the entire room. Like it is taking over her.

She squeezes her eyes shut, hoping against all hope that she has imagined this, but when she opens them again it is still there, taunting her, glaring at her.

The world seems to spin around her, and she clenches her eyes shut again, trying to get a grip on herself. Her skin is practically tingling with nerves, pimpled by the worst goosebumps she has ever experienced, and there is an uncomfortable clenching in her chest. A stifled sob unexpectedly bursts out of her, and she raises a shaking hand to her mouth, clamping down on it harshly. Her eyes are wide, frozen, fixed on the gun. She can't look away.

Jane is hiding an unlicensed gun in the CBI attic.

She knows Jane has never made a secret of the fact that when they find Red John he plans to kill the man himself. He has told her so, numerous times, eyes burning with serious intent and face so hard that she had felt physically slapped. But those had always been just words, never actions - no matter how many times he told her he was going to kill Red John, screw the repercussions, he had never actually taken any action towards it. She knows he has always deflected her attempts at pleading with him to reconsider, has outwardly ignored and denied them, but she has been secretly hoping all along that maybe she was slowly, infinitesimally slowly, getting through to him. That maybe, whether consciously or not, he was beginning to doubt himself.

But now he has a gun.

This is serious now. It was serious before, it has always been serious - but this… this is a whole new level of serious. This is no longer just vague plans for the future - Jane is now in possession of an illegal gun. His plans are solidified, practically iron-clad, and much, much closer to happening than Lisbon had thought possible.

Jane is no longer just planning to kill. Now he is going to kill.

He has a gun.

She thinks she is going to retch. She swallows back the bile rising in her throat, and manages to stand on wobbly legs. She takes a couple of unsteady steps forwards, then leans down and slowly, mindlessly, places the gun back in the box, and the box back under the floorboard. She gathers the loose papers and places them neatly back in the journal, closes it, and places it neatly back under the pillow, exactly how she had found it. She surveys the room with a detached air, then silently makes her way back to the bullpen.

Leaving the dust and grime and stale air of the attic to enter the bustling bullpen feels like entering a new world. There is sound, and light, and movement, and it almost feels like the entire scene in the dark attic had been a dream of a sort, something in her mind. Her own worst nightmare.

Until she meets Jane's eyes across the room and feels a sick clenching in her gut. She tears her eyes away, hunches over and wraps an arm across her stomach, and swallows back the vomit that has risen up her throat. She gags once, and runs to the bathroom, barely making it into a stall before she is retching up her entire breakfast. She leans over the toilet sink for what feels like years, until her dry heaving produces no more results, and then she sinks back into a sitting position. She is shaking madly, uncontrollably, can taste acid in her mouth, and realizes hot, stinging tears are leaking out of her eyes.

A loud sob escapes her, and then another, and she panics, desperately trying to rein them in as she hears the door open and hesitant footsteps enter the room. The veins in her neck are standing out, and her teeth are actually chattering as she tries to keep from making a sound, her entire body tensed.

"Lisbon?" Van Pelt's voice is hesitant, and Lisbon feels a rush of relief. "Are you okay? Jane said I should check up on you?"

"I'm okay," she croaks back, and wipes a shaking hand across her eyes. "Just a bad breakfast - I think I have food poisoning. Could you let the team know I'll be gone for the day?"

"Um, sure," Van Pelt starts, "Are you sure you don't want me to take you home or something?"

Lisbon bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself together, desperately wanting Van Pelt to leave. She takes in a shuddering breath, and rests her forehead against the toilet, the cold ceramic a welcome relief.

"No, I'll be fine. Thanks, though," she adds, and slumps against the floor as she hears the door close behind Van Pelt.

The silence in the wake of her absence is overpowering, and Lisbon feels her mind go blank, concentrating on the slow, steady drip coming from one of the sinks. The air around her is spinning slightly, and she rests one hand on her stomach in an attempt to subdue the nausea. She has no concept of time, not even the vaguest idea of how long she lies there on the bathroom floor.

There are thoughts flitting through her mind, unwelcome thoughts, analyzing what she has just figured out. Jane has deliberately gone and gotten a gun, he is going to kill Red John, is going to butcher him, going to murder him in cold blood. She imagines the scene, imagines Jane pointing the gun, imagines the cold, hard smile on his face, his satisfaction, sees him pull the trigger. She vomits again, vomits until her stomach aches with emptiness, until her head is spinning and her limbs feel weak.

There is nothing she can do to stop him anymore. He has gone too far, gone over the brink, and she can't pull him back now. She can't save him.

Unwelcome realizations are filtering through her conscious, making her aware of things she has so far been able to repress through sheer force of will. She is beginning to realize that she would do anything for this man, this broken shell of a man, absolutely anything. She remembers Danny, remembers letting this criminal get away just because Jane wants it, because Jane needs it. She remembers laying both her job and her life on the line, for him. She knows that if - when, her traitorous brain reminds her, when, not if - it comes down to it, she would still help him. Even if - when - Jane kills Red John, watches with satisfaction as the light fades from his eyes, she would still try to save him, any way she can. She would give up her job for him, give up her morals, her ethics, her life. Because he owns her now, she loves him, loves him, and would do anything, anything, for him.

She doesn't know what time it is when she finally sits up, doesn't know how long she has been lying there in a daze. People have come and gone, heels clattering against the floor, and through it all Lisbon has remained silent, frozen on the other side of the locked door, silent and still. Her mouth is dry and tastes like acid, and her cheeks are stinging, cracking with dried tears. She stands up shakily on weak legs, unlocks the door, and goes to stand by the sink.

Her skin is pale, sallow, and her eyes are blank, unfocused, red-rimmed and sore. She rinses her face with tap water, gargles to clear the stale taste from her mouth, and washes off the rest of her smudged makeup. She dries her skin and stares into the mirror, searching for some recognition of herself, some recognition of who she is, what she lives for, but she can't find. She isn't her own person anymore, perhaps hasn't been for a long time - she belongs to him now, and it makes her feel sick.

She looks away, ashamed of what she has become, and leaves the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind her.

It is dark outside, and the bullpen is empty, the lights off and the room silent. She is entirely alone. She walks into her office and gathers her belongings on autopilot, closes the door behind her, and rides the elevator in silence. Larry, the security guard on duty, calls out a goodnight to her, but she can barely muster a smile back in response.

Her footsteps echo across the otherwise silent parking lot, and her breath ghosts in front of her face in the late-night cold. It is surprisingly chilly for a Sacramento winter night. She marches towards her car, focused only on getting in and getting home, and nearly jumps out of her skin when a voice calls her name.

"Lisbon!"

It is Jane, getting out of his own parked car with a hint of a grin on his face, and Lisbon feels her heart racing, pounding, rattling her ribcage furiously, as he makes his way towards her. She feels nauseous again, and faint, and suddenly, absolutely furious.

"Jane, go home," she mutters as he gets close, avoiding his eyes and placing her key in the lock on her car door.

"I thought that's what you did hours ago?" he questions casually, attempting to stoop down to her level to get her to look at him.

She refuses, steadfastly ignoring him, and struggles to unlock her door, shaking and nearly crying with frustration when the lock gets stuck. Jane gently places a hand over hers, stilling her fingers, and takes the key from her.

"Lisbon," he says quietly, and still she refuses to look at him.

"Jane, I am so not in the mood," she mumbles to the floor. "Go home, right now, get out of my sight or I swear to God…"

Her voice is trembling, betraying her emotional state. Her threat hangs empty in the air, and still she refuses to look at him. His fingers come to rest gently against her shoulder, and she regards them with wide, shocked eyes, before wrenching back and recoiling as if burnt.

"Don't you dare," she hisses, "don't you dare touch me!"

Her eyes flash to his now for the first time, burning with anger and fear and loathing, and she watches as he takes a small step back, hands held out in innocence and complacence. He looks surprised, and she wishes she could feel satisfaction at managing to catch him off guard, but instead all she feels is sick.

"Okay, okay," he soothes, attempting to calm her down.

She glares at him with all the strength she can muster.

"Leave. Right now!" she barks, and he takes another step back.

"Okay, calm down. Do you want to tell me what this is all about?"

His voice is calm and low, and he sounds so condescending that it makes Lisbon shake - with anger this time. She is so enraged that she can barely see straight, like a red haze is clouding her blurry vision -

"Get out of my sight right now or you will regret it."

Her voice is like ice, despite the fire she feels within her bones, and her hand is instinctively reaching towards her hip, stretching blindly for her gun. But she knows consciously that she could never hurt him, and Jane knows it too. He ignores her warning and takes a small, slow step towards her, hands still held out in front of him, palms up in the air. He no longer looks at ease, he looks worried, concerned for her, and it makes Lisbon want to slap him.

"Lisbon, whatever has happened, you know you can tell me what's wrong."

His voice is soothing, like he is attempting to calm a wild animal, and Lisbon is so mad that her entire body is trembling with fury. How dare he, how dare he treat her so condescendingly -

"You know you can trust me," he finishes, and that is the last straw.

"Trust you?" she exclaims, her voice breaking on the last syllable. "Trust you?"

She is snarling now, practically foaming at the mouth, and Jane takes an automatic step back, visibly startled.

"Y-" he starts, but doesn't get a chance to finish.

"Oh, that is rich," she continues, voice like daggers. "Give me one good reason why I shoulld trust you."

"I thought we had gone over this!"

He exhales frustratedly, hands dropping to clench by his sides. He is frowning at her, intent, concerned, and exasperated, and she clenches her teeth against her anger.

"I told you - I am always going to save you," he continues seriously. "You know you can trust me, no matter wh-"

"How can I trust someone," she cuts in harshly, breaking him off mid-word, "who doesn't trust me?"

She had been worried her voice would break, would betray how upset she is, but instead her words come out strong, cool and hard. He blinks back at her in silence, caught off guard, and she watches coolly as he has to try to compose himself. Everything feels surreal, like the entire scene around her is some kind of nightmare, and she feels somehow detached from it all, even as she stands shaking in the middle of it.

"Trust you?" he repeats blankly. "Of course I trust you. You know that."

"No."

She is shaking her head now, slowly, bitterly, refusing to let him get to her. Not this time. She is done.

"No, you don't," she reiterates strongly, tilting her head back so she can look down on him, challenging him to deny her.

"Yes. Yes, I do," he accepts her challenge forcefully, walking forwards until they are barely a step apart.

He looks down at her, frowning intently, trying to make her believe him, but she refuses to. She will not let herself get caught up in him, not this time, not anymore. She takes a step back, still shaking her head, and keeps her eyes trained on him.

"No, you don't!" she barks, and watches as he flinches almost imperceptibly.

"Why would you think I don't trust you?" he questions, frowning at her, and she can practically see the gears in his brain turning as he attempts yet again to try and read her, to figure out her most intimate, private thoughts.

She knows she should bring up the journal, bring up the gun, but she selfishly doesn't want to, doesn't want to have to deal with the repercussions of her finding out, doesn't want him to know about it just yet. She needs time to figure out how she is going to deal with it, what she is going to. She cannot let herself be influenced by him again, not anymore.

"Lisbon?"

He is still waiting for answer.

"Why haven't you talked to me in - in a year?" she asks slowly.

She tries to think back, tries to remember the last time they really talked - it was probably around the time Bosco died, she realizes slowly, around the time Bosco was killed for his connection to Red John, his connection to Jane.

"What do you mean? I talk to you all the time! I'm talking to you now, aren't I?" he questions, almost sarcastically, angry and defending.

"Oh, don't," she snarls. "You know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean, don't play dumb with me. Not now!"

She knows why Jane has been pulling away, knows that he worries Red John will kill everyone he is close to, and perhaps she should feel flattered by that, flattered by his concern, but instead she just feels hurt. It hurts every time she tries to get close to him and he brushes her off, every time she tries to get through to him and he ignores her. He has started flirting with other women recently, holding Van Pelt's hand and kissing Hightower's cheek, like he is trying to let her know that he doesn't care for her in any special way, that she isn't worth his time, but she knows he is just hoping that she will give up on him, so he won't have to worry about her safety any more. Perhaps she should feel flattered that he is trying so hard to keep her alive, but instead all of his flirting just makes her feel hurt, and she hates it.

"You're staying away from me because of Red John," she explains, watching in despair as a mask settles over his face. "You think that because I'm close to you he's going to -"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says coldly, detachedly.

"Oh, yes, you do!" she snarls, and yells in sheer frustration.

Larry the security guard peeks his head around the corner, attracted by her yell, but she is far too furious to care, and he leaves a second later. She can't remember the last time she truly yelled at Jane, out of anger and not just exasperation, truly screamed at him from the bottom of her heart. The empty parking lot is ringing with the echo of her frustrated scream, dark apart from the streetlights, and very cold.

"You're worried Red John is going to hurt me for getting too close to you -"

"Because he is!" Jane unexpectedly bursts out, cutting her off.

He has lost his composure, lost his control over himself, and is glaring at her with a wild look in his eyes, his hands clenching and unclenching in vexation. He runs his fingers roughly through his hair, exhales sharply, and casts a desperate, hysterical look at her surprised face.

"Don't you get it?" he yells, and she is so surprised she just blinks back at him. "Don't you understand? Red John has killed anyone who even starts to get close to me. He killed my wife and daughter, he killed Bosco, he might as well have killed Kristina - and he is going to kill you! Don't you have even a shred of intelligence in that foolish head of yours? Are you really so stupid -"

"Don't you get it?" she yells right back, snapped out of her surprise back into anger, stepping right in front of and getting up into his face. "I don't care! I'm a big girl, Jane, I can take care of myself -"

"Not against Red John!"

"Yes, yes I can! Even against Red John! So stop trying to push me away, can't you see that I'm trying to help -"

"Can't you see that I'm trying to help you?" he cuts in, sounding almost strangled. "He is going to kill you, Lisbon, and I can't let that happen."

"Why? Because you couldn't live with the guilt? It wouldn't be your fault, Jane, it would be his, just like it's not your fault that your family died -"

"Because I care about you too much!" he breaks in raggedly, running a desperate hand through his hair.

Lisbon cuts herself off mid-sentence, her mouth dropping open in surprise. She had known this all along, sort of, but she had never expected to hear him acknowledge it out loud, and she is too surprised to say anything. He takes in a deep, ragged breath, and stares at her intently, his eyes wild with fear and frustration, his face pale.

"You're too important to me," he continues quietly.

She simply stares back at him for a frozen moment, the air heavy with things left unsaid, and only breaks out of her reverie when the streetlamp behind him flickers off and then back on.

"Why didn't you ever tell me any of this?" she questions, starting off just as quiet and then gaining momentum. "Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me -"

"Again with the trust issues, woman!" he exclaims in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air. "Haven't I told you enough times by now, I trust you, Lisbon -"

"Well, then you should have trusted me enough to let me make up my own mind! If I want to put myself in danger to help you, that is my decision to make, not yours -"

"Not if I can help it -"

"It is my decision, and I choose to help you, screw the risks -"

"How do you think I would feel," he cuts in, "if Red John killed you, and I could have prevented it?"

She shuts up, stares at him in silence. He looks back at her, and asks her slowly, deliberately, "Do you think I could live with that?"

She opens her mouth and closes it, gaping like a fish, and hates how he can put her on the spot like this, how he can cut off her train of thought and leave her hanging blankly. Then she squares her jaw and glares back at him, folding her arms challengingly across her chest.

"How do you think I would feel, if Red John got to you, and I could have prevented it? If Red John killed you - or if you killed him? You know how important you are to m- to the team," she continues quietly, seriously. "You know you're practically family now. Did you think we were going to let that happen?"

"No, and that's precisely the problem! You and your damn stubbornness, woman, your damn need to take care of everyone - can't you see that some people don't want your help?"

She ignores the stab of hurt these words bring to her, and faces him furiously.

"I don't particularly care what you want, Jane, because what you want isn't what you need, even if you think it is, and I care about you too much to let you make that mistake -"

"Well, stop caring!" he yells, glaring wildly at her. "Can't you see I'm not worth it?"

She clenches her jaw, resolute.

"Can't you see that you are? You know how I feel about you, Jane, even if we both pretend you don't -"

"Don't," he says quickly, placing his hands up in the air as if to block out her words; he takes a step back, and a panicked, frantic look enters his eyes. "Don't say it," he pleads.

"You know that I love you," she continues deliberately slowly, so far gone that she can't even feel embarrassed at her confession. "I've known for a while now, even if I didn't want to admit it, and so have you - heck, you've probably known longer than I have."

She laughs bitterly, and he hangs his head.

"No," he murmurs weakly.

"Yes."

"Geez, woman, did you have to say that?" he mutters despairingly, and looks up at her with tortured, guilty eyes.

She feels a stab of anger at his reaction to her blurting out her feelings, at his pity, and bares her teeth.

"Yes, because it's true. And I'm sorry if it was convenient for you when neither of us acknowledged it," she says sarcastically, bitingly, "I'm sorry if it made it easier for you to deal with me when we could both pretend it wasn't there, but you know what, it is. And if we have to face the truth and deal with it now, then tough. I'm so sick and tired of pretending -" she slams her fist angrily against her car door, and he jumps at the sound "- that you aren't compromising my judgement, aren't compromising my ethics, because we both know you are. You know I would do anything for you, even if I didn't want to."

She looks away. She lets out a tired sigh at the end of her speech, and leans back against her car, sliding down until she is resting on the ground, her knees drawn up and her head resting back against the the door. Closing her eyes, she acknowledges how drained she feels, how tired, how empty.

There is silence for a long moment, then she hears shuffling and opens her eyes to find he has settled on the floor next to her, with his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands fidgeting against each other. He looks so out of place here, on the floor of the parking lot, that she almost wants to smile, but she can't. Not right now. Instead, she sighs, and closes her eyes again.

Silence stretches over them for eons, and sometime later she feels Jane take her hand. She should be angry at him, should pull away, but instead she laces her fingers through his, and feels relieved when he only tightens his hold. His hand is warm against the cold, dark air, his fingers surprisingly calloused for someone who does no physical labour. She ghosts her thumb over his, the faintest of touches, and feels him twitch in response.

"You know I would do anything you asked me to," she whispers, breaking the silence, "so why have you been lying to me?"

"Because I was trying to protect you," he murmurs back quietly, tiredly, then his hand freezes in hers and he turns to look directly at her, frowning. "How did you know I lied to you?"

She faces him directly, refuses to back down, even as she feels her soul fill with apprehension.

"I found your journal," she states clearly, unflinchingly.

A betrayed expression passes over his face and he pulls back, sliding his hand from her grasp. She lets him. He slowly stands up, and looks down at her with disbelief, standing over her intimidatingly. She stares right back up at him, meeting his challenge, refusing to back down. Instead of feeling sorry, she actually feels a swell of anger slowly rising within her.

"You read my journal?" he demands, his expression closing off and his face becoming hard.

She stands up to be on equal footing with him, suddenly not so tired anymore, and they face off in the low lamplight, with matching scowls and glares.

"Yes," she replies forcefully.

"You read my journal," he repeats, and his expression is so closed off that she can't even begin to read it. "You - you talk about trust, and you've been reading my private thoughts -"

"You've been lying to me," she yells in outrage, disbelieving that he can be mad at her when he has been keeping her in the dark for months.

"You - you read my journal!" he repeats, as if he's so stunned by this that he can't think of anything else to say. As if this is accusation enough, even compared to her allegations. "That is an unbelievable breech of trust -"

"Jane, you've been lying to me for months, don't you dare even talk about breeching trust -"

"To protect you!" he exclaims disbelievingly, still shocked that she had had the gall to read about the lies he had told her.

"Oh, yeah, right!" she snarls, temper flaring right back at him. "Come off it! You lied to me because you didn't want me to get in the way of your grand plans for Red John! You just didn't want me to find him before you did, you didn't want me to figure out his clues and get in the way of you killing him! I can't believe how long you've kept this from me!"

"In case you hadn't noticed," he says sarcastically, "I've been trying to keep you safe! Making you a part of my search for Red John isn't exactly keeping you out of the line of fire!"

"Oh, stop lying to me!" she screams, and is so furious that she stomps her foot, like a child, and can't even blink back the angry, frustrated tears that have sprung to her eyes. "You weren't lying for my protection," she mocks, "you were lying to make sure I couldn't get in the way!"

"How can you say that?" he demands harshly. "After everything I've just told you tonight, how can you even think that?"

She sniffs, and wipes at her eyes with her hand, then glares at him challengingly.

"You want to know why I think that?"

"Yes!"

"Well, then, why don't you tell me about the gun you've been hiding in the attic?"

Her voice is cool, hard, and she raises a mocking eyebrow at him, challenging him, daring him to reply. She is treating him like one of her murder suspects, and she appreciates the distance it puts between them. It makes her feel like she actually has a semblance of control, over the situation, or maybe even just over herself.

There is a moment of stunned silence as he stares at her, lost, and then his face hardens until she thinks it could cut glass.

"So you've snooping," he accuses coldly, and she lets out a slightly hysterical laugh.

"Snooping? That's the worst you could come up with? You've been hiding an illegal gun so that you can deliberately murder a man in cold blood, and you're accusing me of snooping? I - I don't even know what to say that."

She throws her hands in the air and looks around as if for inspiration, then glances back to find him staring at her, an unreadable expression on his face. She sobers instantly, and leans back against her car for support, feeling both nauseous and dizzy and again. Her adrenaline has kept her going for so long, but now she is just feeling sick and drained, and much too tired to deal with this.

"I can't believe," she continues quietly, "that you actually did it. That you went and got a gun. Jane, this is serious - this is way overboard, this is completely…"

She trails off and lets out a sigh, frustrated at her inability to express herself and the gravity of the situation. Jane is still watching her silently, and she stares back at him, but cannot communicate with his blank, walled off eyes.

"I didn't go and get the gun," he says eventually, unmoving, and her head snaps up to face him.

"What?"

"I didn't go and get the gun," he repeats, staring at her, willing her to believe it.

"So, what, the gun just magically appeared there one day-?"

"No," he cuts her off forcefully, refusing to listen to her sarcasm. "Someone gave it to me. I didn't ask for it, and I didn't deliberately go and get it, either. I know I haven't been honest with you, but I'm not lying, not this time. I promise."

She stares at him, judges him, tries to reason with herself about whether or not she can trust him. He looks back at her openly, no longer closed off, and she can feel herself weakening.

"Okay," she acknowledges quietly, and nods once to show she believes him.

A ghost of a smile passes over his lips, so faint she hardly notices it, and he moves slowly to stand beside her, leaning back against the car just like she is, reassured that everything will be okay.

But it isn't okay. She realizes this now, realizes that it probably never will be, and that she can never make it okay. There is nothing left for her to do, and she just can't stand idly by and watch Jane destroy himself. It would kill her. The realization of what she has to do is like a ripping in her chest, like it is tearing herself in two, like it is squeezing her heart and her lungs until she can't breathe, can't live. It hurts, so much, to even consider this, and yet she knows it would hurt so much more not to go through with it.

So she looks down, clasps her hands together tightly, and steels herself for what is about to occur.

"But you didn't hand it in, either," she continues quietly, "did you?"

His body tenses, and he slowly turns his head to look at her, but she ignores him. She takes a moment for herself, feels her heart breaking, and slowly gathers the inward strength she knows she will need to go through with this monumental decision. She closes her eyes, takes a deep, slow breath, then turns to look at him.

He is regarding her quizzically, as if he is unsure what to make of her statement. She braces herself, then talks slowly, carefully, thinking through each individual word before she utters it out loud.

"Jane. I want to trust you, really, and maybe I already do about certain things, but I don't… I don't think I will ever trust you when it comes to this, when it comes to Red John, and honestly I don't think that I should. I know you didn't go out and get the gun yourself," she adds, before he can interrupt, "but the fact that you kept it at all… that you hid it in the attic, when you can't even stand the sight of a gun… it doesn't look good, Jane."

He opens his mouth as if to say something, frowning, then breaks off, as if he can't quite figure out what he wants to say. He can't even defend himself, and Lisbon feels a shattering in her chest as she realizes just how right she is. He can't even deny it.

"I thought that maybe, on some deep, subconscious level, just maybe I was getting through to you, but I don't think I have. I'd hoped that maybe you were starting to doubt yourself, that you might choose not to kill him - even if not for yourself, then at least for me. You know how I feel about you. You know what would happen to me if you went through with it. And I had hoped that even if reasoning hadn't gotten through to you, then maybe whatever small feelings of friendship you had for me would at least make you reconsider. But that was foolish, wasn't it?"

She smiles sadly, and watches as he opens his mouth again, as if to argue with her, then stays silent. He seems frozen, and his expression has become unreadable again.

"I can't get through to you any more than anyone else, can I?"

Still he is silent. She looks down, and feels the pieces of her heart rupturing, breaking away from each other, until all that is left is a broken hole. She physically aches, unbearably, the pain so intense that she wants to curl up and die. She breathes in shakily, then turns to face him fully, placing a hand on his upper arm until he looks at her.

"Okay, here's what I'm going to do," she explains quietly, not even trying to understand his expression anymore. "I'm going to take the gun and hand it in anonymously, and then I'm going to hand over your journal to the Red John team."

He clenches his jaw and swallows, but otherwise remains silent, so she continues, pulling in a long, slow breath. She is in agony, but simultaneously she feels strangely almost liberated. She is finally, finally, finally doing something for herself, rather than for him.

"And then I'm going to go to Hightower and ask to be transferred to another office."

She is done with him.

His eyes snap to hers, suddenly focused, and something passes over his face, but she is done trying to read him. She is defeated. She has given up, finally, and, though it is killing her, she also feels twinge of relief. Soon, she will no longer have to deal with any of this.

"Okay?" she asks gently, and shakes his arm slightly when he doesn't respond. "Jane, I need you to let me know that you understand."

He nods once, jerkily, and whispers hoarsely, scratchily, "I understand."

"Good."

She lets go of his arm and steps back, reaching for her car keys. He is still standing there, as if shell-shocked, and remains that way as she opens the front door and sits down, buckles her seatbelt, and starts the engine. She is strangely composed now, running almost on autopilot, and refusing to consider further what she has just realized, what she has just decided. She won't even think about it, not right now.

She rolls down her window and calls to him, frowning with concern but too drained to do anything about it.

"Jane, go home and sleep," she says. "I'll see you in the morning."

He nods again, and seems to snap out of his daze, taking a step back so that she can drive away. She pulls out of the parking lot and refuses to look back at him in the rearview mirror. She is going to go home, take a bath, down a bottle of wine, and then she is going to cry herself to sleep over Patrick Jane, for the first and what she desperately hopes will be the last time.

A week later, Jane lies sleeping on his makeshift bed in the CBI attic, until he is woken by soft, departing footsteps, and a whispered "Goodbye, Jane," echoing through the dust. He blinks his eyes open and turns to look at the entrance, but all that is left are the imprints of footprints on the dusty floor.

He can't believe she just left without giving him a chance to say goodbye.

After everything they have gone through.

He is not entirely sure whether he wants to desperately chase her through the CBI building, or apathetically turn over and enter blissfully unconscious sleep for a year. He is saved from having to make a decision when he notices a brown leather journal lying on the desk.

He knows Lisbon had handed in his gun the next day without a mention of his name, and knows the Red John team have been made aware of the William Blake poem, and until now he had thought they had his journal as well, with all of his interpretations and thoughts.

Frowning, he runs a hand across his tired eyes, and stands up to walk over to his desk. It is definitely his journal, and as he thumbs through it he is surprised to find that it is entirely intact, not a page missing, not even a single page placed out of order. He doubts the Red John team have even seen it. So why did Lisbon give it back to him? Was she… giving him a head start?

But then hadn't she left because she didn't want him to kill Red John?

He exhales sharply in confusion, and his frown deepens as he gets to the front of the book, where he finds a folded note with her handwriting. Short and sweet, it simply reads

I hope that when it comes down to it, you change your mind.

But mostly I hope that you get what you are looking for.

Did Lisbon leave because she couldn't stand the thought of him killing Red John, couldn't deal with helping a cold blooded killer? Or because she felt that since she couldn't change his mind, he had no more use for her? Had she given up on him, or given up on herself?

Jane stares thoughtfully at the note as he slowly sits down. Twirling it between his fingers, he stares absent-mindedly through troubled eyes, and contemplates.