Author's Note: So... I gave in and added another chapter. :) This IS the last one though haha. Is it too fluffy at the end?

I mentioned in my previous Mentalist stories that I find it easier to write from Jane's POV, but for some reason I've identified a lot more with Lisbon while writing this one. I can understand where she's coming from a lot easier than Jane, who this season seems a lot more closed off. But I've still only seen up to Episode 6, so no spoilers please! And please review! :)

Lisbon is scared to open the door.

She had scrambled up the stairs, so fast she was almost flying, raced down the hallway as fast as she could, with no thought in her mind other than she needed to be there ten minutes ago. But now that she is here, right outside the door, she hesitates for the briefest second, clenching her gun tighter. Her mind races nervously, thoughts chasing themselves around and around, and she is so scared to see what is on the other side.

But she can't afford to waste time due to fear.

The next instant, barely one struggling breath away from the last, her hand is pressing down on the door handle, twisting, turning, and the door slides open.

She isn't sure what she had expected, and now she doesn't know whether to be relieved or distraught at the sight that meets her eyes.

The room is dark, lit only be the faint streetlights outside the window, and it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust. It is bare, empty, dusty and cold, and she shivers with nerves. There are two men on the floor in the corner, one kneeling over the other, and she steels herself. There is the glint of a knife, a flash of red, and Lisbon feels her whole world come crashing down, like she has just experienced an apocalypse, like this is the end of days -

Oh, God. OhGodohGodohGodohGod -

She is too late.

But then the door slams shut behind her, and both men flinch at the sound.

Jane isn't dead.

And neither is Red John.

Oh, God.

She can breathe again. The relief that sweeps through her is so staggering that she physically sways, and has to lean against the wall for support, faint with nerves and a racing heart.

She isn't too late.

But if she doesn't pull herself together, pretty soon she might well be.

She breathes in, grips her gun tighter, and assesses the situation with cool determination. Both men are on the floor, but it is actually Jane who has the upper hand, she notes in surprise. She isn't sure whether that is more or less alarming. He is kneeling on the floor, holding a bloody knife in his hand, and looks so unkempt and out of control that she fears for his sanity. His eyes, when he looks at her, are so wild, so out of focus, so insane, that it is obvious he has lost his grip on reality.

The other man lies sprawled on his back, dressed in black robes and an eerie mask that sends shivers creeping down her spine. There is blood on the floor, and the man is obviously injured, but he is alive, and that is all that matters right now. His body twitches, then falls still, and there is a horrifying second where she thinks that Jane has done it - but then she hears a rattling breath escaping from beneath the mask, then another, and she closes her eyes in relief.

She points the gun at them, in precaution, and takes a quiet, wary step forwards, never lifting her eyes.

"Jane," she says.

He blinks at her, still paused with the knife hovering over Red John's throat, but it is as if he doesn't really see her. His eyes are so wild he reminds her of an animal, a beast, and fear clutches at her throat, choking her, until she can't breathe, can't think -

"Jane," she repeats, louder, alarmed when he still doesn't react. "Jane, I need you to put the knife down."

He doesn't move, except to shift his gaze back down to Red John. His hand still hovers, shaking, trembling, and his mouth is set in a silent snarl. She takes another careful step forwards, like approaching a wild animal, scared to make any sharp movements lest she spur him into action.

"Jane, put the knife down."

She speaks slowly, clearly, but can't hide the tremble of fear in her voice. She is so scared he won't listen to her, scared he will go ahead and go through with his ambition, scared she will have to deal with the repercussions. Scared she will have to arrest him. Scared she will let him go.

She has never, never, never been this scared in her life.

"Jane!" she barks loudly, fear getting the better of her, and his head snaps up.

He seems to recognize who she is, a dawning slowly coming over his face, but he shakes his head, and grips the knife tighter, so tight his whole hand trembles violently. Lisbon watches it warily; she can feel her gun trembling just the same way in her own hand.

"No," he says, his voice scratchy and rough, hoarse with emotion.

"Yes."

She inches closer, but he audibly snarls, lets loose a noise so animalistic that he is almost inhuman now, in his madness. She takes a step back, not wanting to induce him into action.

"You don't want to do this," she tries, pleads.

"Oh, yes - yes, I do, you have no idea how much I want to do this."

His voice is rough, hard and fast, and he laughs cruelly. Lisbon can barely recognize him, and it is utterly devastating. She feels sick, and desperate, so desperate, and so afraid - and she can't breathe, can't think -

"This isn't going to help - this isn't going to change the past - it's not going to make anything better," she pleads, urgently, desperately.

"You don't know that!" he yells, so loudly that she almost expects the unconscious man to be woken. "You have no idea - this is justice, he deserves it, he's going to get what's coming to him -"

"No, no - Jane, this isn't justice - this isn't going to fix anything, just put the knife down -"

"He murdered my wife and daughter!" he roars back.

Jane is trembling so violently now that she is amazed he can keep himself upright. His face is white, his pupils dilated, and she can see that every one of his muscles is taut, tense, rigid. It breaks her heart a little to see him like this, so out of control, so blinded. So lost. And, oh, he's going to do it - and she can't breathe - can't think -

"They wouldn't want you to do this, you know that," she yells back, nearly crying with frustration now.

She needs to stop him -

"You don't know that! I made them a promise -"

He brings the knife closer, closer, closer to Red John's throat, violently trembling, and an icy cold knot of panic grips Lisbon's gut painfully.

She hadn't wanted it to come down to this, but it is a last, desperate resort. She had wanted Jane to let go for himself. She feels sick, she knows he will forever resent her for this, will never forgive her - but she is willing to sacrifice whatever feelings he has for her, if it means he doesn't kill Red John. His blaming her is worth his life, and she is willing to sacrifice their friendship to save him. Of course she is. Because she loves him, infinitely more than herself.

So she yells in desperation, her voice breaking, her gun becoming slack in her hand, "You made me a promise! You promised me you wouldn't do this!"

Jane blinks, and a light seems to come on in his eyes. Lisbon holds her breath; feels her heart race, pound, throb, feels the roaring panic in her head, feels the gun shake in her fingers. He hesitates, pauses, crouched over Red John's prone form. He is trembling madly, so violently that the knife in his hand actually touches the material covering Red John's neck, and Lisbon sucks in a sharp breath -

And lets it out shakily when Jane throws the knife down on the floor. He is breathing heavily, heaving deep gasps of air, and he clenches his hands in his hair, pulling so hard his knuckles turn bone white. He looks utterly distraught, like his whole world has come crashing down around him, his face twisted with despair and madness, but all Lisbon feels is relief, so encompassing that she can barely think straight.

She lowers her gun, rushes forward and kneels on the floor next to Jane. Picking up the knife gingerly, she throws it away, hardly wanting to look at it, let alone touch it. She feels for Red John's pulse with one hand, and places her other on Jane's shoulder.

"Jane," she says shakily, trying to get him to look at her.

Red John's pulse is faint, but it is there, and she immediately recoils her hand, physically repulsed. She grabs hold of both of Jane's shoulders, facing him directly, and shakes him lightly. He doesn't react, seems almost catatonic and, now that the worst is over, her fear disappears, replaced by concern.

"Are you okay?" she asks, squeezing his shoulders. "Jane!"

"What do you think?" he snaps, and shakes her hands off. "I -"

He exhales in frustration, and runs a shaking hand through his hair. Lisbon pulls back slightly, telling herself that it is ridiculous to feel hurt by his behavior - of course he isn't okay, what a stupid question - and reaches for her cell phone. Watching Jane like a hawk, she presses two on speed dial and places the phone to her ear. Jane is still kneeling on the floor, breathing heavily, but Lisbon is scared to touch him.

"Cho," she says, when the ringing has stopped. "Get up here. And call an ambulance."

"Yes, boss," is the only reply she gets, and she mentally thanks Cho's succinctness for not making her explain anything yet.

"Jane."

Her voice is gentle, now, concerned, and she lightly places the tips of her fingers against his wrist, wary of doing more. He looks at down at them, but otherwise doesn't react.

"Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head, mute, and she slides her fingers so that she is grasping his hand lightly. Her gun lies abandoned on the floor next to her, near the bloodied knife, and she shifts away from them, closer to Jane, who still hasn't moved. Her knees are aching where they rest against the hard floor, but she doesn't want to stand up, doesn't want to leave him like this.

"Hey," she says softly, almost a whisper. "It's over. We caught him."

He looks into her eyes, but it is like he is looking straight through her, not really seeing her, and she feels her heart sink. He slowly, deliberately pulls his hand from hers, and she lets him, trying not to show her hurt, trying not to feel hurt.

"I - I need to clear my head," he stutters, rising to his feet haltingly, jerkily.

She is wracked with indecision, torn in two. She doesn't think it is a good idea to let him go, but doesn't think he should be kept here, in this room, either. She doesn't think he should be by himself right now, but knows he doesn't want her around. She hesitates, uncertainly, doubtful, then nods her head once.

"Okay," she tells him, looking up at him from where she is crouched on the floor.

There are words on the tip of her tongue. She wants to tell him not to do anything stupid, to be careful, to not take too long. But she doesn't know if he wants to hear it, if he even would hear it. In the end, she stays silent, cursing her lack of communication skills, and he nods once, woodenly, and exits the room without a backwards glance. Lisbon, crouched next to Red John's unconscious body, alone and distraught, feels a sharp stab in her heart, and wonders if she just made a grave mistake.

She barely has time to think it through before Cho comes bursting through the door, and then the rest of her night is consumed with statements and paperwork and hospitals. She is unbelievably busy, distracted, has no time even to think of Jane - but underneath it all, simmering just below the surface of her thoughts, her mind is concerned for him. She wonders where he is, what he is doing, how he is feeling, and she worries, so strongly that she almost feels sick with it.

If even she can't believe it's over, she wonders how in the world he is meant to.

Because it is over. They have caught Red John. He will go to prison, will be charged with the death penalty, will get what he deserves - and it is over, and she just can't wrap her head around that. Over. Done.

Jane doesn't return to the crime scene, doesn't show up at the hospital, and Lisbon pauses for barely a second before deciding to drive back to the office instead of her home. If she is going to find him anywhere, it would be there.

She parks quickly, then sits inside her car for a minute, trying to pull herself together. She feels faint with nerves, almost queasy, and she takes a few deep breaths before opening her car door and making her way inside the building. She isn't sure what to expect, what kind of state Jane will be in, whether he will even want to talk to her, will even want to look at her -

- but all her worrying is for naught, because he isn't even there.

She searches the entire bullpen, her office, even goes into the men's bathroom, but Jane is nowhere to be found. It looks like he hasn't been here at all. She is concerned in an entirely different way now; concerned for him, not concerned about their potentially awkward upcoming confrontation. Because he isn't even here to have that confrontation - and where is he?

She heads towards her desk and collapses into her chair. Her body is exhausted after all of the trauma and high emotions of tonight, but her mind is racing, trying to figure out where Jane is, how he is doing, whether she should be worried about him.

She places her elbows on the desk and rests her face in her hands, trying to get a grip on herself. This is too much. Just way too much.

It's over. Done.

She wonders how many times she is going to have to tell herself that before it starts to sink in.

She exhales shakily, hears a flutter of paper, and opens her eyes to find a white sheet on her desk, blank except for two words scrawled in messy handwriting. Her entire body freezes when she reads them, filled with dread, and now she is worried.

I'm sorry.

"I'm sorry"?

What does that mean?

What has he done?

Where is he?

Her mind immediately conjures up images of worst case scenarios - Jane lying under a bridge somewhere, floating at the bottom of the ocean, red blood gushing out split wrists -

Her chest is tight, she is asphyxiating, her head is rushing, roaring, pounding, her entire body feels like it's on fire -

Jane breaking into the hospital, finishing what he started -

She clenches her eyes shut, and heaves in a deep gasp of air.

Jane at his family's graves, broken, alone, going insane, now that he has nothing left to live for -

She scrambles to her feet, and the chair falls backwards behind her with a loud crash. She doesn't pay it any attention.

She has to find him.

Knowing it is futile, she reaches for her cell phone and dials his number. It rings once, twice, three times, and then - "You've reached Patrick Jane. Leave a message."

Of course.

Panicking, she tries again, and again, and still nothing. She throws her phone against the desk in frustration, and can't even bring herself to care when the back falls of and the battery comes flying out, shattering into pieces. She stands still, frightened, and thinks, thinks, thinks -

Then snatches up the pieces of her broken phone, grabs her keys, and runs to her car. She drives all night, visits every place she can think of - his home, her home, his family's graves, the scene of the crime, the hospital, the county jail….

But he is nowhere.

The sun is just starting to rise when she finally gives up, too exhausted and distraught to continue. She makes her way back to the office, with the intent to wait there on the off chance that he returns. But one second she is sitting down in her chair, worrying, and the next thing she knows the sun is glaring through the blinds, and she is waking up with drool dripping down her chin.

She wipes her face and rushes to the bullpen; when she sees Jane's empty couch her heart sinks to somewhere near her feet. Van Pelt is just arriving, shrugging off her jacket, and Cho is already at his desk, computer on and a mug of coffee steaming in his hand. They both look up as she enters.

"Have you guys heard from Jane?" she questions anxiously.

"No," answers Van Pelt, looking a little surprised. "I would've thought he'd be with you."

Lisbon doesn't want to think about what Van Pelt is implying, what she has noticed about their not quite platonic relationship, because it hurts too much. So she just shakes her head, and suddenly Van Pelt looks concerned as well.

"Maybe he just needs some time alone," she suggests uncertainly, as if even she doesn't really believe it.

"Can I borrow your phone?"

Van Pelt blinks, but hands it over anyway. Lisbon is already searching through the contacts when Van Pelt asks, "What happened to yours?"

"It broke," she replies shortly, then slams the phone shut as she gets his answering machine again. "Goddammit, Jane."

"I'm sure he'll be back soon, boss."

But Van Pelt's voice is hardly reassuring, and neither is the uncertain expression on her face. Even Cho looks a little worried now, and that is nearly enough to send Lisbon over the edge. Her heart is in her throat, and she is worried sick, and she feels so helpless, and she just doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know if there is anything she can do.

So she settles for calling him every few hours, and her worry increases exponentially each time she hears the same response. "You've reached Patrick Jane. Leave a message." By the end of the day, she is at the end of her rope, so worried that she can barely even think straight. She leaves early, drives to all of his former haunts, then ends up back at her home, empty-handed. Racked with nerves, too high-strung to sleep, she takes two sleeping pills so that she can pass out, knowing she'll need to be in a better state of mind tomorrow.

But when she listens to her messages in the morning, none of which are from Jane, she doesn't feel any better. If anything, she feels worse. Her chest hurts, she is so worried. It is a physical ache, unlike anything she has ever experienced before, crushing and squeezing until she feels she can't breathe, can't think, can't live.

Where is he?

As the days go by and no one hears from him, they all become increasingly tense, snappish, worried. She has her entire team doing everything they can to look for him, has declared him a missing person with the authorities, and has requested a search party to try and find him. But Jane has always been a slippery little weasel, and he knows exactly how to avoid getting caught, always has.

She gets no results. He has just disappeared, off the face of the earth.

How is she supposed to help him when she can't even find him?

She calls him at least once a day, every day, feels her heart rise to her throat with hope then sink to her stomach when she gets the same reply, every time. "You've reached Patrick Jane. Leave a message." It is a never-ending cycle of frustration, despair, and crushed hope, and she can't stand it.

And then, one day, nearly a month later, she gets a different message when she calls.

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

She freezes, paralyzed, the phone still raised to her ear, beeping incessantly. She drops it.

And feels her entire world come crashing down.

Because Jane is inescapably gone. In the split second after she hears those ten words, she suddenly realizes that all of her searching is for nothing, because Jane either can't or won't be found. If he can be, then it is clear that he doesn't want to be. And if he can't be… if he's…

She refuses to even think the word 'dead'.

There's… nothing more she can do.

But she does not give up. If Jane doesn't want to be found, then he won't be, and that's that. But if he's in trouble, if he needs to be found, then she will find him, if it's the last thing she does.

She spends the rest of the day just going through the motions, acting on autopilot. She feels like a wooden marionette, like it's not really her at all, just some dull, lifeless clone, with no thoughts, no emotions, no feelings. No hope. But she doesn't call off the search team, doesn't take him off the missing person's list, doesn't delete his number from her new phone. Just in case.

She didn't think it was possible, but from then on she worries even more than before.

Because now there really isn't anything she can do. His phone is no longer in service. His emails bounce back. And no one in the entire nation has caught even a glimpse of him in weeks. She feels helpless, useless.

The team give up slowly, one by one. Rigsby is the first; not that he is cold, but he is impatient, and he can't really deal with the stress. Cho follows, believing that Jane doesn't want to be found, not that he can't be. And finally Van Pelt gives in too, her hopelessly romantic and optimistic heart deciding it's pointless to keep looking.

But Lisbon refuses to, not yet. Not when there's still a chance she can help him, if he needs it.

Weeks go by. Nothing changes. Red John's trial comes to a close, and Lisbon watches as he receives the death penalty. The others don't come with her, aren't even aware that she has decided to go. But it feels wrong, somehow, not to see it through all the way to the end. He dies, finally, after all of these years, and all she feels is empty, hollow, wooden. She falls asleep that night clutching at the empty hole in her chest and wondering whether it will ever, in her entire life, go away.

The next morning the newspaper covers the Red John story, and includes a picture of her, the leading agent who caught him, standing outside the courtroom. She can hardly recognize herself; she looks weary, and stressed, and very, very lost.

And still, more than anything, worried about Jane.

That night, she gets an email from an address she doesn't recognize. When she accidentally opens it instead of trashing it as junk mail, she feels the wind knocked out of her. Dazed, reeling with shock, she has to read it three times before her mind can even begin to make sense of the words.

I'm okay, don't worry about me.

She knows automatically who it is from, doesn't even have to think about it. She feels alive again, like color has reentered her world, like she can breathe and see and smell and feel. She is gripped by euphoria, so intense she has to struggle to rein in it -

He's alive - he's okay.

Mind racing, body thrumming, heart pounding, she is almost done tracing the IP address - some internet cafe in South Korea - before she suddenly stops, fingers poised over the keyboard, and actually thinks. She had been acting on instinct and adrenaline earlier, trying to find him; she had spent so long without even a clue, and now he had just handed her one, and she had automatically taken it -

But then she reads his words again, and her heart slows down, sinks, drops.

"Don't worry about me."

Three months of absence, three months of stress and worrying and fear, and he finally contacts her only to tell her not to worry about him.

He's okay, and she is so relieved.

But he has also made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want to be found.

She shouldn't be surprised. She had always known, always, that if he did let go of his revenge, Jane would resent her. Would blame her. Would never forgive her for it. Of course he doesn't want to be found by her, she's the reason he didn't get go through with his master plan, and he will always, always, resent her for it, and she shouldn't be surprised -

But now that her worry has gone, it is replaced by hurt.

It is agony, torture, a physical gnawing ache where her heart should be, and she realizes she misses him, so, so much - and how did she not notice this before? She misses him so much she can't breathe, can't live - and she realizes she will never see him again, and she realizes he quite possibly hates her now - and she wants to die, it is so painful - and oh, God, it hurts -

For the first time since he disappeared, Lisbon feel salty tears cascading down her face, scarring her, burning her, choking her. She sobs loudly, out of control, heaves in huge gasps of air that burn her lungs, cries so hard her head starts to pound, to throb, until she feels she will implode, and it hurts. She cries herself to sleep that night, not even sure who she is crying for - for Red John, for Bosco, for Angela and Charlotte, for Jane -

Or maybe even just for herself.

When she wakes up the next morning there are dried tear tracks on her face, but she feels calmer. No less sad, but resigned now, accepting. Jane doesn't want to be found by her, and he doesn't need her, so she will finally, finally stop looking for him. She calls off the search party, takes him off the missing persons list, and lets the team know that he is okay. They deserve to know, even if she doesn't want to talk about it.

"But he's not coming back?" is the first question Van Pelt asks, and Lisbon can hear in her voice how her optimism is crushed, how her romantic and idealistic hopes for Jane and Lisbon are destroyed.

It hurts too much talk about, to think about, so she just shakes her head and retreats into her office, alone.

Try as she might, over the next few months she can't get him out of her head. Everything, absolutely everything reminds her of him. When she is in the office, she is okay, because she has distractions and work and cases to keep her mind busy. But at night, in her bed, alone, her mind wanders against her will, and she remembers him, and she misses him.

She remembers meeting him, remembers her initial anger and distrust and resentment, and how Jane finally won her over, though she would never admit it.

She remembers paper frogs and trust falls and emerald necklaces and donuts - "There's no accounting for taste" - and card tricks and and psychic nonsense and blushes and "I'm always going to save you" and it spins through her mind dizzyingly, like a kaleidoscope of lost, treasured moments.

She remembers leaving, remembers the two months she spent in New Jersey where she felt like her world was over. She remembers Jane coming to tell her he needs her, he loves her, he won't kill Red John.

She remembers the four months they spent back in Sacramento, remembers the intimacy, the awkwardness, the hesitancy of two broken people trying to muddle through their emotions to make a rational decision.

She remembers Andrew and his wife Sheryl coming to visit for her birthday, remembers the dinner they shared -

"Jane!" she had snapped, reprimanding him for going along with Andrew's suggestion of hypnotizing Sheryl.

Jane had sheepishly sat back in a sulking silence, but Sheryl had raised her eyebrows with a smirk.

"You guys have been dating for four months and you still call each other by your surnames?"

"Oh, we're not - dating," Lisbon had started awkwardly, unsure of how, exactly, to characterize their not-quite-a-relationship.

"Are you sure?" Sheryl had asked knowingly, and how is it that three words could make Lisbon blush to the tips of her toes?

But then Jane had laid a hand on her knee under the table, somehow both comforting and oddly possessive, and she had smiled, and thought that yeah, he would always be Jane to her, forever, no matter what.

And she cries, and she misses him, and she hurts. It is a slow, deep, fathomless ache, lurking in her veins, simmering in her blood, underlying her entire life. And as the weeks turn into months and she still can't move past this, she starts to realize that she may never, in her entire life, be done with him - and how can she bear living like this, forever and ever, when she can't even stand it for now?

But then time goes by and, as the summer heat disappears into fall, she finds that her grief and heartache slowly, gradually fade with it. And it will probably never be gone completely, she knows this, but she learns to cope with it. She may never be done with him, but she finds she can live without him, she just needs to find the strength.

And then, out of the blue, twelve months after she found the gun, ten months after he gave up his revenge plan, and six months after he left, Patrick Jane walks back into her life as if he had never been gone at all.

The milk goes in first, white liquid against white ceramic, and then a teabag follows, tinting the pure white just a little. A wait, a whistle of the kettle, and then boiling water comes last, filling the mug to the brim. The teabag is lifted out once, twice, three times, and then the final time it doesn't return.

He takes a cautious sip, and smiles. It's perfect.

He leans back against the counter, and watches with amusement as Rigsby enters, looks over at him cursorily, heads to the fridge, then does a double take.

"Jane?" he gapes in disbelief, then a wide grin crosses his face. "Hey, man, good to see you! How've you been?"

"Hi."

Jane smiles back, and for the first time in a while it's sincere.

"Man, I can't believe you're here! Where've you been the whole time? Do the others know you're back? Have you seen the boss yet?"

Rigsby's smile is infectious, like a little child, and his rambling is really kind of endearing. He seems so excited, and it warms Jane's heart a little to know he was actually missed.

"You're the first person I've seen, actually. Where is everybody?"

"Probably getting back from lunch," replies Rigsby as he chews on a handful of carrots (damn Van Pelt).

As if on cue, she walks through the door and places her bag on her desk, shrugging out of her jacket.

"Wayne, didn't you just get lunch?" she asks in exasperation, in response to his obnoxiously loud crunching on carrots.

"Yeah," he mumbles through his mouthful of food, "but I'm still hungry. Hey, look who's back!"

When Van Pelt turns around to face them, her mouth actually drops open in surprise.

"Jane!" she exclaims.

"Hi," he replies sheepishly, taking another sip of tea.

"You're here! Oh, my gosh, I can't believe it!"

The next thing he knows, she is wrapping her arms around him in a hug and he has to be very careful not to spill his tea. He chuckles, quietly, and carefully hugs her back, warily watching his mug.

"It's good to see you too," he says, and he means it.

She pulls back, but is still grinning like an idiot.

"How are you? How have you been? You look good!"

"I feel good," he replies honestly.

"That's great," she beams. "Where have you been this whole time? Lisbon told us you were okay - did you even know we were looking for you? - but she didn't tell us where you were and - have you seen her yet?"

Jane shakes his head, still smiling.

"It's kind of a long story, and no. Is she around?"

Van Pelt smiles at him as if she is holding a secret, as if she knows exactly who he came back to see and why, and he almost wants to blush at her scrutiny, unused to being on the receiving end of it. Is he really so transparent?

Does he even care if he is?

Meh, not really. If things go the way he wants them to, they'll all know soon enough anyway.

"I think she's in her office," says Van Pelt, looking at him significantly, and Risgby just watches them with a clueless expression on his face.

"Right."

Jane smiles at them again, and moves to head towards her office, but is stopped when Cho enters the bullpen. Cho spots him immediately, and something passes over his stoic expression, but Jane must be out of practice because he can't read him at all.

"Jane," is all he says, emotionless.

"Good to see you, Cho," Jane exclaims with a beam.

He moves as if to clasp him on the shoulder, but Cho takes a step back almost imperceptibly, and Jane pauses.

"Good to see you too," Cho replies, but he doesn't exactly look pleased, and Jane frowns. "Where've you been?"

If anything, he sounds accusatory.

"You know, around," says Jane vaguely, not really wanting to get into it yet.

"You going to see Lisbon?" Jane nods, and Cho lowers his voice so the others can't hear. "Hurt her again, and I will break you."

Jane suddenly understands Cho's behavior, and he feels a pull in his gut. It is a strange dichotomy, a juxtaposition of pain and pleasure, because he at once both regrets hurting her and yet feels so at peace with himself that he can't regret leaving.

Cho was in a gang, and Jane knows without a doubt that he would go through with his threat, but he doesn't anticipate that having to happen at all. He will do everything, absolutely everything, in his power to make sure he doesn't hurt her he just nods his head in acknowledgement, and smiles back when Cho loosens up.

"And, hey, I'm glad you're back," Cho adds, the tiniest hint of a smile curling up his lip.

"Me too."

And then he heads towards her office. He stands just outside it, peering in through the slits in the blinds, and sees her for the first time in half a year. Her back is to him as she stands by her desk, pouring over some case files, and he watches as she turns the pages, taps her foot, massages the back of her neck. He could watch her forever, he decides, and never get bored.

He remembers the last time he sought her out, after those two hellish months when she had been in New Jersey. He remembers his state of inner turmoil, and how high-strung and tense he had been, remembers his emotional breakdown outside her brother's house. Back then he felt like his world had been flipped upside down, but now he finally feels that it has been righted again.

He can't regret leaving. He had needed it, at the time. He had been a mess, practically insane and deranged and mad. He had needed to come to terms with himself, to say goodbye, to let go and move on, and he had needed to be alone for it. And he had done it, and he can't remember the last time he felt so calm, so at peace with himself and the world. It wouldn't have been fair to her to start something when he was so messed up, but now he is ready.

He had travelled east, to Florida, then further east, to France, Italy, then to South Korea, where had heard about Red John's death and had broken down for a few days, before piecing himself back together, better than before. And then he had travelled further east, to Japan, then Hawaii, where he finally felt so at peace with himself that he decided it was time to travel even further east, back to California, coming full circle.

And now, watching her, he feels more than peace, he feels home. He can't remember the last time he felt like this; it is such an extraordinary feeling, rising and swelling within him until he thinks he might explode.

So he puts his teacup down and knocks on her door before entering, feeling like his heart might burst. She doesn't react except to blindly wave him in and underline something on the paper she's reading.

"Thanks, Cho, you can just put it on my desk," she says without looking at him, and he closes his eyes at the sound of her voice.

Oh, God, it feels good to be home.

"Lisbon," he says quietly.

Her spine stiffens and she freezes, clenching the edge of her desk so tightly her knuckles turn white. She turns around slowly, almost as if she doesn't want to, and her face is completely blank with shock as she finally looks at him. Her skin is so pale it is practically white, but her eyes are dark and shining, and God, he's missed her.

"Jane," she says blankly.

"Hi," he replies, and tries to hide the smile threatening to stretch across his face. He fails.

"You're back," she says stupidly, still standing frozen, like a dummy.

"I'm back," he agrees.

He walks forwards until he is standing right in front of her, so close they are almost touching. She hasn't stopped looking at him, has barely blinked, as if she expects him to disappear at any second. He places his hands on her shoulders, and she stares back at him blankly, dazed, reeling, until he slides his hands slowly up her neck and she snaps out of it.

"I - What are you doing here?"

She is the only one who has asked him that, the only one who seems to have never expected to see him again, and that tugs at his heartstrings. Does she really have no idea how he feels about her? Did she really think he wouldn't ever come back to her?

"What do you mean?" he asks in confusion.

"I - why did you come back?"

She sounds confused, and lost, and his chest tightens. Does she really not know? How can she not know? He rubs his thumb against her pulse point, feels it race under her skin, and ducks down a little so he can see her eyes more clearly.

"Why do you think?" he murmurs.

She doesn't reply, just stares back at him in confusion and hurt. He thinks he can also see hope hiding somewhere behind her gaze, lurking quietly, and he realizes he might have to show her, not tell her, why he came back.

So he leans in, and without a second thought he presses his lips to the corner of her mouth, lingering. She is frozen, breathing shallowly, and Jane tilts his head just the tiniest bit - and then his lips are on hers, softly, lightly, almost intangible, a heartbreakingly gentle slide of lips that leaves them both reeling. A butterfly kiss.

He kisses her once, twice, lightly sips at her lips, tasting, exploring, learning. He is breathless, thrumming with energy, tingling, and he can't believe he's finally, finally, actually kissing her. But she doesn't react except to hold very, very still, and he is about to pull away, wondering with a sharp clench in his chest whether he made a mistake, whether she can't forgive the way he has treated her, whether she's moved on -

Then she responds, kisses him back, slides her fingers up over his shoulders and into his hair and - oh, God, why they hell haven't they done this sooner? He unties her hair from its bun, runs his fingers through it, and - it's so long now, and was he really away for so much time? Her lips are soft, warm, pliant, and he can't believe he's finally, actually, kissing her, and she smells like cinnamon and Lisbon and he can't get enough and his head is spinning and -

- there's a sudden throbbing pain in his gut, and he doubles over, places an arm across his stomach and gasps. What - ?

Lisbon's lips are swollen, and she is flushed, and breathing heavily, and - her hand is clenched into a fist?

"Did you just - punch me?" he asks in astonishment.

Well, he supposes he kind of deserves it.

"You left," she says, her voice small, and the ache in his heart hurts so much more than the pain in his gut.

She crosses her arms over her chest, and lowers her head, looking up at him from veiled lashes, and she looks so vulnerable and small and hurt that Jane can't stand it. He can't regret leaving, can't regret finding himself, but he feels so much remorse that he had to hurt her in the process, so much remorse that it is almost killing him.

"I know," he replies softly.

He straightens up and places his hand on her shoulder again, but she shrugs it off jerkily, still looking up at him from under lowered eyes, as if she can't bear to face him directly.

"You left me," she whispers, and his heart physically hurts when he sees the sheen in her eyes.

"I know," he repeats, just as quietly.

"You didn't even say goodbye."

And here her voice breaks, and Jane hurts so much he feels physically sick. He cups his hands around her jaw, uses his thumb to wipe away the tear crawling down her cheek, and presses a feather-light kiss to her temple. She doesn't push him away this time; if anything, she leans into his touch, closing her eyes and breathing raggedly, as if she has given in.

"I know," he repeats for the third time, whispering. "I am so sorry. But I - I was a mess, Lisbon, and I needed to be alone for a while, but I'm not anymore, and I promise, I will never leave you again."

"You don't - blame me? For Red John?" she asks hesitantly, as if she doesn't want to hear the answer.

Her voice is fragile and delicate like glass, and his heart clenches in his chest, so tightly he feels the breath knocked out of him, far harsher than her punch.

"No," he breathes, horrified, "no, Lisbon, I never blamed you - is that what you thought?"

"Well, what was I supposed to think?" she questions defensively, and crosses her arms tighter across her chest, even more vulnerable. "You just left, and you never even tried to contact me and -"

"No," he exhales, pressing closer against her, feeling his heart break. "No, I never blamed you, it was never about that. I promised you I wouldn't do it, and I didn't, but I never resented you for it. I just - needed to be alone, really alone. You cloud my judgement too much, my dear. I needed time to - to come to terms with myself. With everything."

He had been so messed up that he hadn't even realized that Lisbon might be worried about him. Not until he saw her picture in that news article about Red John, saw how whitewashed and weary and ragged she looked, so bad that it had taken his breath away. He had let her know he was okay, so she wouldn't worry anymore, but he hadn't been ready to go back, not yet. He had kept that picture in his wallet though, a reminder that he wasn't just traveling aimlessly, that he was making his towards something, towards her, and it had kept him grounded. Just like she always has.

But he had never even considered that she might believe he resented her. God, he had been stupid. He should have known her better than that; it was exactly the type of thing she would believe. Stupid, foolish, amazing woman.

He leans his forehead against hers, feels her breath tickling his cheek, and closes his eyes in contentment, breathing her in. But she is quiet, as if she doesn't believe him, and he kisses her cheek lingeringly.

"I mean it. I never blamed you, not once. I love you, and I will never leave you again. Not even if you threaten to kill me," he adds.

She laughs once, watery but genuine, and wraps her arms around his back, bringing him closer. She clings on, and he can sense the desperate relief in her, the fear that she is dreaming, the reassurance that this is real. He smiles into her hair.

"I'm scared," she whispers.

"I'm not," he replies quietly, and he honestly means it.

"Okay," she whispers back.

But he can hear in her voice how she doesn't really believe him, not yet. She wants to, but he has broken her trust too many times, and she is scared to take the risk again. He presses his lips against her temple and vows that he will spend the rest of his life earning her trust back.

"But don't think you're off the hook," she warns; her voice is teasing but Jane can sense the undercurrent of seriousness in it. "You owe me big time."

He laughs, squeezes her tighter against him and feels her smile into his skin.

"Okay, what do you want?"

"Well…" she draws out the word. "Dinner would be good. And strawberries. Lots of strawberries."

He pulls back to look her in the face.

"That's it?"

"For now," she acquiesces.

She grins mischievously, and Jane finds himself laughing back at her. He can live with that. He's willing to spend the rest of his life making it up to her, because he's finally over his past. He's done with that chapter of his life.

And he can't wait to start the next one.