AN: I've had the idea for this oneshot for several months, and now that A Lapse in Judgement is complete, I finally had time to write it. Basically, this story explores a What if? question for "Fugue in Red"...namely, what would have happened had it been Lisbon rather than Jane who was attacked in the opening minutes of the episode? It's my favorite thing I've written in quite some time, and I hope you guys enjoy it, too.

Many thanks to Leafenclaw for being a sounding board for me while I worked on this oneshot. Your advice is invaluable!

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.

requiem:

an act or token of remembrance

Jane treks back through the trees, following the flashing lights from the caravan of cop cars parked near the scene. He's not surprised that his search for the murder weapon has turned up empty – his eyes have never been good, and it's possible that a thorough search of the area would yield nothing even with the benefit of daylight. There are, after all, an infinite number of hiding places in a forest like this.

As he approaches a cluster of agents and officers, Cho gives him a weird look. "Where's Lisbon?" he asks.

Jane raises an eyebrow. "Not with me. Should she be?"

"She went to find you," says Cho, glancing at the officer next to him. Both frown.

Jane makes to turn around. "We must have just missed each other. I'll head back –"

Cho jogs forward to block his path. "Like hell you will. We shouldn't have let you wander off alone in the first place – the killer might be out there."

The atmosphere shifts suddenly, and a breeze blows past them. Jane shivers. "I need to find Lisbon," he says, looking toward the woods.

Cho eyes him, debating. "Okay," he says eventually, nodding. "But not by yourself. I lead, you stick right behind me. Got it?"

"Got it, Boss," says Jane, giving Cho a mock salute.

Cho rolls his eyes, and they head into the forest.

"There's a pond dead ahead," says Jane as he and Cho step over a particularly large fallen tree. "Since I didn't find the murder weapon, you might want to have forensics search there."

"Noted," says Cho.

He turns away from the pond, but Jane heads toward it, curious. He swings his flashlight over the surface of the water, mesmerized by the way the water shimmers as it moves.

It occurs to him that the first time he'd seen the pond, the water had been stagnant, no ripples in sight. Jane moves the beam of the flashlight further out. He drops the flashlight unceremoniously a second later and lunges into the pond.

"LISBON!"

The water is biting, so frigid that it knocks the air from his lungs. But he doesn't have time to consider this; instead, he splashes through, tripping over rocks and falling face first into the water. He bangs his knee against a particularly sharp rock but feels no pain – that, he expects, will come later without the natural anesthetic of the freezing water. He pulls himself up and wades over the last few feet before he reaches the dark, floating mass that he'd seen from shore.

He hears another splash and realizes that Cho has followed him into the pond. Jane shifts Lisbon's body to ensure her head is well above water while he drags her back. Cho is shouting in the distance, and Jane vaguely registers the sight of multiple beams of light making their way toward the pond.

Cho helps Jane carry Lisbon's body to shore. They set her down, and Cho gets to work immediately, placing the heels of his hands, one over the other, at Lisbon's sternum and pressing down forcefully. He repeats the motion again and again.

The beams of light are getting closer – thank god – and Jane moves to Lisbon's head, brushing her hair out of her face.

"Come on, Lisbon," says Cho, and Jane bends down to check if she's breathing. He shakes his head, and Cho continues.

There's a sharp crack, and Jane looks up at Cho, horrified.

"Rib," grunts Cho. Jane just swallows, noting how much force Cho is applying and how fragile Lisbon's form looks in comparison.

Jane grabs one of Lisbon's hands and rubs it between his own. He thinks it feels only marginally warmer than the water in the pond.

Paramedics arrive at that point, and Cho pulls Jane away so that they can take over. They ask a million questions, but Jane just looks at them blankly, wondering if he'll ever be able to construct coherent thoughts again – because right now his only thought is Lisbon Lisbon Lisbon.

He looks away when they cut open her blouse, knowing she wouldn't want her body on display. Cho also diverts his eyes, and they both look up at the stars as the taller paramedic orders everyone to steer clear.

Lisbon's body jerks, but she doesn't start breathing.

Lisbon Lisbon Lisbon.

The paramedics increase the voltage.

"Teresa," pleads Jane. He moves forward on instinct, but Cho holds him back just as the electricity moves through Lisbon again, causing her to jerk once more.

Lisbon coughs.

Water spills out of her mouth, and the paramedics talk among themselves, coordinating what to do next. They move quickly, and before Jane realizes it, one of them has pushed something into his hand.

"Keep this for her," says the paramedic kindly. "I assume she'll want it back."

They lift her onto a stretcher and disappear into the trees, carrying her between them.

Jane opens his hand to find Lisbon's cross necklace. Beads of water still cling to it, and its clasp is broken. Jane folds his fingers tightly around the cross to stop them from shaking.

Jane keeps vigil over Lisbon as Cho talks to her doctor in the hall. He counts every breath she takes in, every breath she exhales. He's thankful for each one.

Cho pops his head in. "Got a minute?" he asks.

Jane stands and steps outside the room. A baby-faced resident walks past them, and Cho shifts uncomfortably.

"Lisbon's doc says physically, she appears to be in perfect health apart from the broken rib she sustained when I was giving her CPR. All in all, we're lucky her skull wasn't sliced open considering the rocks."

Jane just nods and wonders when everything will stop feeling numb.

"But she was without oxygen for several minutes," Cho continues. He hesitates before continuing. "There may be brain damage."

"I know," says Jane, looking through the glass window to see Lisbon, still asleep in her bed.

"I just wanted you to prepare yourself," says Cho. "You going to be okay here? There are a few things I need to take care of back at HQ."

"I'll be fine," Jane responds. "I'll keep you updated on her condition."

"Thanks," says Cho. He makes to turn around before stopping himself. "Hey, Jane," he says.

Jane looks at him.

"She'll be okay. This is Lisbon we're talking about."

Jane has to smile at this. "I know," he says again.

Lisbon groans an hour later, and Jane nearly sobs at the sound.

"Hey," he croaks, standing up and leaning over her as she blinks several times. Her breathing becomes much more labored, and Jane brushes her hair away from her face. "How are you feeling?"

Lisbon seems to finally get him into focus, and she looks panicked.

"I can't remember," she says, looking like she might cry.

"It's alright," says Jane, resting his hand on the side of her head. "Your doctor said you might have memory issues."

Lisbon flinches away from him. "I can't remember," she says again, and this time her tone is laced in fear. "I don't remember."

Jane takes a step back. Perhaps being so close to him upon waking up has disoriented her, he thinks.

But then he reads her. And suddenly, he's sure he has a look of panic to mirror her own.

"You don't know me," he realizes.

Lisbon pulls the covers more tightly around herself. "I don't know me," she says, blinking furiously against pooling moisture in her eyes. She crosses her arms against her chest and tucks her fingers under her elbows, curling into herself, and she looks younger than Jane has ever seen her.

Jane feels faint. He sits down, making sure to keep some distance between them. Her reaction to his closeness makes infinitely more sense now. "You don't know who you are?" he asks softly.

Lisbon shakes her head. "What happened to me?" she whispers.

Jane hesitates, wondering what he should say. He decides on the truth.

At least, a part of it.

"You almost drowned," Jane says. "You were oxygen-deprived for a few minutes."

"Is this permanent?"

"I'm not sure," says Jane honestly. "You'll have to ask your doctor."

Lisbon's eyes narrow. "Who exactly are you?" she asks, leery.

The numbing sensation is gone now, Jane realizes. Now everything just hurts.

"My name is Patrick Jane. You call me Jane. I'm your…partner."

"You're my husband?"

Jane's mouth goes dry. "No, no, no," he says. "I'm your partner at work."

Lisbon blushes. "I'm sorry," she says. She glances at his ring. "I just assumed…I…I thought there wouldn't be much reason for you to be at my bedside unless we were involved somehow."

"It's okay," he says. "And we are involved…kind of. Just not…romantically." He pauses, wondering how best to explain.

Lisbon forces his hand.

"What am I to you?" she asks.

This, at least, is an easy question to answer. "You're my best friend," he says honestly. "The most important person in my life."

Lisbon's eyes flash again to the ring on his finger, and she eyes him suspiciously.

Jane hurries to explain. "My wife died several years ago," he says. "I haven't really dealt with it yet. Hence, the ring."

"I'm sorry," says Lisbon again. "I didn't mean to –"

Jane shrugs. "It's a natural question for you to have. Don't worry about it."

Lisbon scrutinizes him, and Jane shifts in his chair uncomfortably. He sees a technician wheel a sleeping patient down the hall out of the corner of his eye.

"You pulled me from the water, didn't you?" asks Lisbon, taking in the loaner clothes he's wearing, all of which are several sizes too big.

Jane nods.

"Can I ask you for one more favor?"

Jane nods again.

"Tell me who I am."

Jane pulls his chair closer, scraping it against the linoleum floor, and he is relieved when Lisbon doesn't flinch this time. He smiles tentatively at her. "I'll try to do you justice," he says.

This earns him a smile, and some of the pain lessens.

"You are Teresa Aileen Lisbon. You're from Chicago, and you have three brothers. Your parents died when you were young, so you raised your brothers single-handedly. You went to college in California, and sometimes you still feel guilty about leaving your brothers in the Midwest. You are the purest person I've ever met, and I've met a lot of people. You are a leader, and you fight to protect those you care about. You're a cop. Your first job was with SFPD, but later you applied for the CBI and became the first woman to lead a team there in homicides and major crimes."

He stops at Lisbon's puzzled look.

"What's the CBI?" she asks.

Jane grins. "We always say that we need more brand recognition," he answers. "It's the California Bureau of Investigation. Like the FBI but on a smaller scale."

"I'm a cop?"

"A damn fine one," Jane confirms.

Lisbon gives him another confused look, and Jane knows what she's going to say before she says it. "You don't look like a homicide detective."

"Oh, I'm not," he says, grinning again. "I'm a consultant."

"A consultant," says Lisbon, still suspicious. "How did that come about?"

Jane's throat constricts. He glances away, looking out the window at the darkened, cloudless sky before finally turning back to Lisbon.

"It's a long story," he admits. "And it's not a particularly happy one. Can we save it for tomorrow?"

Lisbon nods. "You'll be back?" She looks like she's trying not to be hopeful.

"Of course," Jane says, bewildered, because it seems like the most obvious thing in the world to him to make sure she is okay. "I'll ask the doctor what time he thinks you'll be discharged, and I'll stop by then. I can take you back to your condo."

"I'd appreciate that," says Lisbon, leaning back into her pillows.

Jane stands and reaches over to her. He lets the cross necklace dangle from his fingers. "This is yours. You never told me, but I suspect your mother gave it to you before she died." And he drops the cross necklace into her open palm.

He watches as two tears fall in quick succession from the corner of Lisbon's eye. He looks down at the floor, feeling like he's intruding. "I'll be back," he adds, turning away.

She calls out to him when he reaches the door, and he stops, one hand on the doorframe. He glances over his shoulder. "Jane," Lisbon says, her voice rough. "Thank you."

"Anytime, Lisbon," he says, and he turns the corner.

He stops by the CBI before heading back to his motel room to fill in the team on Lisbon's condition. He'd guessed Cho would still be burning the midnight oil – or in this case, the well past midnight oil – but he's surprised to find Rigsby and Van Pelt in the bullpen as well.

Van Pelt immediately gives him a warm hug. "Thank God you were there," she says. "You saved her life tonight."

"Which means I only need to save her about fifteen more times for us to be even," Jane says, his tone a little too self-deprecating. "Good thing she's far less reckless than I am – I don't see that ever being necessary."

"Boss is usually good at saving herself," agrees Rigsby, walking over to them. "How is she?"

Cho stands up as Jane hesitates, and Jane watches as the expressions of his teammates fall. "She doesn't remember anything," he says, his voice low. "She doesn't know who she is or who any of us are. She doesn't even remember her family."

Van Pelt's hand immediately goes to cover her mouth. Rigsby sits down in the nearest chair, and Cho closes his eyes for a second too long. "What can we do?" says Van Pelt. "There's got to be something. What about hypnosis?"

Jane shakes his head. "I had a client once who was in a dissociative fugue state. Her family begged me to hypnotize her, so I did. But it didn't help. In fact, I ended up accidentally creating false memories for her. I don't want to do that to Lisbon."

Cho nods. "No hypnosis," he agrees.

"What about familiar faces and places? Why don't you bring her back here? Isn't it best to get her back to her normal routine?" suggests Rigsby.

Jane shrugs. "Yes and no. What concerns me is that I don't know how much of her other memories are intact. Her episodic memories – anything related to events and experiences – seem to be gone. If her procedural memories have also been damaged, then she'll need to be retrained before she can come back to work because she won't have the skills to be a cop."

"Okay," says Van Pelt, running a hand through her hair. "So no CBI for now. Would it help if we visited?"

"I don't know," says Jane. "Depending on her emotional state, it could help or, alternatively, it could be overwhelming. I'm going to see her tomorrow –" Jane glances out the window to his left. "Well, today, actually. I'll try to evaluate her other memories, and I'll ask if she's feeling up for visitors."

Cho nods. "I'll report this to Wainwright. Tell her not to worry about paid leave – I'll make sure she gets it for as long as she needs."

"Thanks, Cho," says Jane. He looks at Rigsby and Van Pelt. "Thank you all," he corrects.

"Get some sleep, man," says Rigsby, clapping him on the shoulder. "You look like hell."

"Doesn't surprise me," murmurs Jane under his breath as the others turn to grab their things and head home. "I've certainly been there and back tonight."

Van Pelt must hear this, because she gives him another hug after shrugging into her jacket. She doesn't try to assure him that everything will be fine, which he appreciates. Instead, she walks with him silently to the elevator, Cho and Rigsby following along in their wake.

Lisbon is sitting in a chair by the window when he arrives, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring out across the city at the cars passing below.

Jane watches her from the threshold of the room for a minute, and he can almost believe that everything is normal. Then he knocks.

"Good morning," he says. "I come bearing gifts."

Lisbon looks over her shoulder, the blanket falling to her hips and revealing her bare back underneath her flimsy hospital gown. "Hi," she says, her expression unreadable, but her eyes go wide when she sees that he has coffee. "That smells incredible."

Jane hands her the cup. "For you, my dear," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"My rib only hurts when I breathe," says Lisbon, and Jane snickers. Lisbon takes a deep breath, clearly savoring the smell of the hot beverage. "I like coffee?"

Jane chuckles again. "You practically have caffeine rather than blood running through your veins, Lisbon."

She takes a sip. "That explains why I have a massive headache right now," says Lisbon. "Caffeine withdrawal." She puts the cup to her lips again and downs more. "You know how I take my coffee?"

"You're my best friend," says Jane in explanation. He looks out the window, slightly embarrassed. "So how's the view of downtown Sacramento from here?"

"Sacramento," says Lisbon softly, testing out the word. "I'd wondered what city I was in, but it felt like a stupid question to ask."

Jane's heart twists painfully, and he hands her the bag he's carrying in his other hand. "I had the other female member of your team stop by your condo with me and pick out some clothes for you. I figured you'd want to change."

"How'd you guys get in without a key?" asks Lisbon, curious.

Jane grimaces. "Among other things, I know how to pick locks."

His guilty expression clearly makes Lisbon wary. "What exactly is it you did before consulting for the CBI?" she asks, curious. She takes the proffered bag of clothes, brushing against him, and heads for the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

A few seconds later, Jane hears her groan softly.

"You okay?" he asks, immediately concerned.

"Fine," comes Lisbon's voice, her tone terse. "I just have a very limited range of motion with a broken rib, apparently."

Jane nods to himself, staying where he is.

"You never answered my question," Lisbon reminds him.

Jane braces himself for the impact of his next words, knowing they won't reflect well upon him. "Sleight of hand is kind of my area of expertise," says Jane. "Before the CBI, I was a psychic. A fake one, that is."

Lisbon opens the bathroom door suddenly and steps out, the buttons on her blouse only halfway done. Jane tries to avoid staring at her exposed midriff. "You're a conman," she says, her eyes wide, and the accusation in her voice stings.

"Not anymore," says Jane forcefully, and it's suddenly imperative that she believe him. Lisbon's faith has always been on his side before – he's not sure what he'd do if he lost it.

Lisbon finishes the buttons and tucks the blouse into her jeans. "You're a reformed conman, then." She pulls her hair into a ponytail and walks toward him. "Why'd you stop?"

Jane hadn't planned on telling her here, in this claustrophobic hospital room, but it occurs to him that he is a stranger to her now. She has no reason to trust anything that comes out of his mouth, no reason to believe he's even who he says he is.

She has no reason to believe that she is who he says she is.

Jane steps toward her. "I got my family killed," he says. "I thought I was smarter than a serial killer, and I insulted him on television. When I got home, my wife and daughter were dead. He slit their throats, desecrated their bodies, wrote his mark on the wall in their blood." He wrings one hand in the other. "That's why I joined the CBI."

Lisbon searches his face. "We haven't solved it yet," she deduces. "Their murder. We haven't solved it, have we?"

"No," says Jane. "Sometimes I doubt we ever will."

Lisbon crosses her arms, mulling something over. "Do you have a piece of paper?" she asks. "And a pen?"

Jane reaches into the inside of his suit jacket and pulls out both, offering them to her.

Lisbon shakes her head. "This is going to sound strange," she says, "but can you draw his mark for me?"

Jane considers her request, knowing it must mean more than he realizes. Deciding it's some kind of test, he scribbles the haunted smiley face onto the paper and hands it to her, feeling slightly sick.

Lisbon looks at the sketch before crumpling it up. "I saw that mark in my dream last night," she says. "It's the only thing I remember about my life."

"Funny," says Jane. "Sometimes it's the only thing I remember about mine." He stares at her. "You're wondering if I'm him, aren't you?"

"The serial killer?"

"Red John," Jane supplies. "There are very few people in this world who both recognize that mark and know so much about your life. I'd wager there are only two, in fact. Your closest ally is one. Red John is the other."

"The thought did occur to me," admits Lisbon. "But, no, I don't think you're him."

"Why?"

"A number of things. I spoke with an agent named Cho this morning when I called the CBI to confirm my identity. He told me I've been working with him, Grace Van Pelt, Wayne Rigsby, and Patrick Jane for several years. He described your appearance to a T. Plus, I swiped your wallet when you handed me my bag of clothes, and I checked your driver's license. You're not lying about being Patrick Jane."

"You remember how to pickpocket?" asks Jane, incredulous.

Lisbon's eyes narrow. "I'm guessing you taught me that?"

"I don't know whether to be proud or pissed that you got it off me without me noticing." He looks at her more closely as she offers him the wallet, which he puts back into his pocket. "What else?"

Lisbon walks away, picking up random items that have been strewn around the room and packing them into her bag. "Muscle memory is a powerful thing," she says. "And my muscles seem to remember you even if my brain doesn't. I find myself expecting to feel the weight of your hand on my lower back." Lisbon reads his shocked expression. "That is something you do, then?"

Jane nods, his throat tight. "All the time."

Lisbon hoists the bag onto her shoulder and walks toward Jane. "You're also listed as my next of kin, which means I chose you over my brothers. I have no way of knowing why I did that, but it must mean that I trust you. So, no, I don't think you're a serial killer."

"Why, Lisbon, that is the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Lisbon smirks, and she reaches out to slap his shoulder lightly. Then she freezes, her hand still on his arm.

"This feels normal," she whispers. "Is it?"

Jane just nods again, unable to speak.

He walks her to the door of her condo, and she digs through the bag of her personal belongings for her keys. When she finds them, she freezes.

"What is it?" asks Jane.

Lisbon breathes in, breathes out. Then she holds the set of keys out to him. "You wouldn't happen to know which one is for the condo, would you?"

Jane gestures to the smallest of the six keys. "This one," he says gently, knowing how much the admission must have cost her. He understands the little things – like not knowing the city in which she resides, or not knowing which key locks her home – are, in their own way, just as difficult to accept as the loss of her overall identity.

"Thanks," Lisbon mumbles under her breath. Jane watches her as she opens the door.

"You've never liked asking for help," he notes, and Lisbon steps inside. She glances back at him, looking exhausted. "I'm not surprised that hasn't changed even though you can't remember a thing about yourself. But, Lisbon, I beg you – please ask for help if you need it."

Lisbon's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch, and she bites her lip, clearly hesitating. Jane just stands there, in limbo, waiting on the threshold of her home. He doesn't want to presume that she'll invite him inside, but he hopes she will.

"I don't think there's much you can do to help," admits Lisbon, staring at the ground. "You can't return my memories to me; you can't help me remember who I am."

"Maybe not," agrees Jane. "But I can be your memory for the time being. Temporarily, of course, until yours returns. Aren't you curious about who you were? Who you are? Ask me anything, and I'll answer."

Lisbon considers this for a few more seconds before gesturing with her head to invite him inside.

"Excellent," says Jane as Lisbon closes the door behind him. "My mind is a fortress, Lisbon, and nothing ever escapes from it unless I choose to set it free. You'll see for yourself. I call it my memory palace."

But he knows Lisbon is only vaguely listening to him ramble – she's taking in her condo for the first time. "Did I move recently?" she asks, walking over to a cardboard box on the side of the couch and opening it to look inside.

Jane shrugs out of his suit jacket and tosses it on the nearest chair. "You've been here for years," he says.

"It doesn't feel like much of a home," notes Lisbon, glancing around. Her eyes land on the generic artwork hanging from the walls that she'd once told him had been left by the previous owner.

Jane sits down on the armchair and looks up at her. "You and I have that in common."

Lisbon sets her bag down at the end of the couch but remains standing. "Where do you live?"

"Nowhere," says Jane honestly. "I still own the beach house in Malibu where my family died, but I rarely go back. In Sacramento, I rotate between various extended stay motels."

"Why?"

Jane leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him. "I'm not really sure," he admits. "What it comes down to is that I don't think it's possible for me to have a home without them."

Lisbon is watching him closely, and she sits down across from him, toeing off her shoes. "You hadn't told me that before, had you?"

Jane shrugs. "You never asked."

"I'm asking now," says Lisbon. "Would you tell me about them?"

"I thought I was supposed to be answering questions about you, not me," he reminds her.

"You are," says Lisbon. "You're my friend, and your story is important to me. I want to know it. You can tell a lot about a person based on who their friends are."

"Fair enough," Jane concedes. "What do you want to know?"

"What were their names?"

"My wife was Angela. My daughter was Charlotte."

"Those are beautiful names."

Jane doesn't know what to say.

"How long ago..." begins Lisbon, but she trails off, unable to finish the question.

"Almost a decade," says Jane. "But every time I wake up, it hits me like it was yesterday. I don't imagine that feeling will ever go away."

"I'm sorry," whispers Lisbon.

"So am I."

Lisbon shifts the nature of the questions at that point, sensing how difficult it is for Jane to speak about his family. Instead, she asks him about her life, her family, and her past, and he tells her everything he knows.

Hours later, his voice is a little hoarse from talking, but Lisbon has one last question.

"What was our first meeting like?" she asks.

Jane grins. "I looked like a homeless man – I was a homeless man," he says. "It took me about a year to get my head on straight after my family died, but as soon as I did, I went to you. I stopped by the CBI and asked for the agent in charge of the Red John case. Then you showed up, and you were the last thing I expected."

"How so?"

"You were so gentle. You recognized how fragile I was. But you couldn't tell me anything because the investigation was ongoing, so I was shown to the door. That's when I goaded one of your former team members, knowing I could make him angry. And it worked – he punched me, and you came to my rescue. Your boss was was so worried I would sue that he let me tag along on your case. We ended up solving it together, and I was offered the gig as a consultant. And the rest, as they say, is history."

"So this is a habit of ours, then? Rescuing each other?"

"It would seem so," says Jane.

Lisbon's smile reaches her eyes for the first time since she'd woken up in the hospital. "Guess I should keep you around, then," she says.

Jane chuckles. "I don't want to give you the impression that the ledger is even, Lisbon. You've come to my rescue five times as often as I've come to yours."

"Tell you what," says Lisbon, scooting to the edge of her seat and holding his gaze. "You pay for delivery for lunch, and we'll call it even."

Jane grins. "Deal."

Jane is disappointed, though not surprised, to find that seeing her condo doesn't help Lisbon remember who she is. He knew she spent relatively little time there that wasn't spent sleeping, and he tells her so. Lisbon suggests returning to work the next day. Jane is hesitant, but he agrees it's worth trying considering her procedural memories appear to be intact.

Her office at the CBI is, after all, more a home to her than is her condo.

He picks her up the next morning in his Citroen, and as she climbs in beside him, he cannot help but remember.

I allow you to drive me around the country in this contraption. That's serious trust.

He snorts, and Lisbon looks at him. "Care to share with the rest of the class, Jane?"

He pulls away from the curve. "You hate this car," he says.

Lisbon looks immediately apologetic. "How did you –?" she asks, then she pauses. "Did I tell you that?"

"Not in as many words," says Jane.

Lisbon looks at him almost wistfully. "You're my memory now," she reminds him. "Tell me what you were just thinking about."

So he does.

They spend the entire day at the CBI, reintroducing Lisbon to her team and the bullpen. It's almost physically painful to watch her interact so tentatively with the team he knows she once considered family, but he can't see anything else for it. He wishes there was more he could do to help her.

The silver lining comes the second day. She catches a break for them on their current case, and she leads an interrogation, albeit through an earpiece from the observation room.

She is a cop, through and through, and even the loss of her identity cannot change that.

But despite this, Jane watches as Lisbon becomes increasingly frustrated regarding her lack of progress with her episodic memories. At the end of a particularly long day back at work later in the week, she is filling out paperwork at her desk, taking twice as long as she normally does to complete each form. Jane is sitting on the couch in her office, waiting for his tea to cool down and offering assistance when needed. He's seen her fill out these forms often enough, after all, that he could complete them in his sleep.

But he doesn't want to seem too obvious in his attempt to watch over her, so he pretends to read over files from active cases. He doesn't think she buys it for a second, but she allows him to remain in her office without comment, and he listens to the scratching of her pen and the shuffling of papers, sipping his tea.

And then it's suddenly quiet. A few seconds of silence stretch into a minute, and Jane looks up, concerned.

Lisbon's eyes are too glossy.

"Let's go," says Jane promptly, knowing something has upset her. He stands up and walks over to her desk, grabbing her jacket and holding it out for her.

Lisbon looks up at him. "I haven't finished –" she begins.

"It can wait," says Jane. "It's past seven anyway." He stares at her, still offering her the jacket. She stands and threads her arms through the sleeves, sensing that arguing is futile. As she shrugs on the jacket, Jane pulls her hair out of the way. "Come on," he says, gesturing to the door, and he rests his hand on her lower back as they walk down the hall together.

When the elevator door closes around them, he turns to her. "You okay?" he asks.

It tells him something that she doesn't even try to assure him that she is fine. Instead, he watches her expression fall. She just shakes her head, and he lets it drop for now.

When they reach the parking lot, she heads for her car, but Jane catches her hand. "Come with me," he says gently, gesturing over to the Citroen.

Lisbon looks down at their intertwined fingers, clearly making up her mind. "Where are we going?" she asks finally, and she falls into step beside him.

"You need something to eat," says Jane, taking in her pallid complexion. "And I know just the place."

He drives for twenty minutes or so until they arrive in the parking lot of a small diner on the outskirts of the city. At this point, the dinner rush is mostly over, so they get a booth by the window without waiting.

Jane orders for both of them, ignoring the waitress' interested smile and making sure she catches a glimpse of his left hand. Lisbon misses the whole exchange, staring out the window at the darkening sky.

Jane begins folding his paper menu, waiting for her to speak.

It takes a couple of minutes, but finally, she does. "I don't remember my badge number," Lisbon says. "I needed it for that stupid form. And before you say anything, I know I could just look at my badge. I'm being silly. I know. I know."

Jane shakes his head. "It's not silly," he says, folding the paper over again. "That badge is part of who you are. Of course you're upset."

Lisbon wipes at her eyes, still avoiding looking at him. "It's been a week since I almost drowned," she whispers. "And I don't remember a thing besides that horrible smiley face. What if I don't ever remember who I am?"

Jane stills his hands, and he leans forward. "Some people who experience fugue states don't regain their memories for months. Sometimes years. Just because you haven't remembered yet doesn't mean you won't ever remember."

"But what if –?"

Jane cuts her off. "Then I will be there to tell you. I will be there to tell you that you are badge number 41319. You are Teresa Aileen Lisbon, and you are my best friend. You are my partner. I will be there to tell you who you are." He extends his hand across the table, his palm facing up.

Without hesitation, Lisbon reaches over to grab Jane's hand, squeezing it tightly.

He squeezes back.

Lisbon glances down at the folded menu in his other hand. "Is that a paper airplane?" she asks.

"My own design," says Jane proudly, and he holds it out for her to see. To his delight, she keeps her hand in his and reaches out for the paper airplane with her other. "You want me to show you how to make it?" he asks. "We can have a contest in the parking lot to see whose goes farther."

Lisbon nods, and Jane grins.

She wins handily, which amuses him because he gets another rare smile from her.

But once they settle into the Citroen again for the ride back into the city, the mood becomes grim again. Jane is silent, letting Lisbon work through her thoughts.

"I read your file," says Lisbon eventually.

Jane raises an eyebrow at her.

"You're an expert hypnotist," she says, holding his gaze this time before he returns his attention to the road.

"I take offense to that," says Jane. "I would use the word 'master' rather than 'expert'."

Lisbon rolls her eyes. "If you're as good as you say you are, you can help me get my memories back."

Jane tenses, and he's sure Lisbon has noticed his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. "I promised I wouldn't try," he admits.

"Why?" asks Lisbon.

Jane speeds up to run through a yellow light. Lisbon reaches out to the side of the car to brace herself.

"Using hypnosis on fugue patients can give them false memories. I don't want to risk that with you."

Lisbon begins to say something, thinks better of it, and closes her mouth. A few seconds later, she says, "At this point I'm willing to try just about anything, Jane, no matter the risks. I want to feel like myself again." She pauses, and her next words are softer. "You can't deny that this isn't hurting you, too – I see it every time I look into your eyes. You want me to be her, and you're always disappointed that I'm not."

"You are my Lisbon," argues Jane. "With or without your memories."

"You know what I mean," says Lisbon tersely. "This is as hard on you as it is on me. I lost myself, but you lost your best friend."

Jane doesn't know how to respond to this, so they drive the last few minutes in silence until they reach her condo. He pulls over to the curb and shuts off the engine.

"I trust you," says Lisbon.

"You barely know me."

"Then help me know you," says Lisbon. "Help me get my memories back. Just try. At least try – that's all I'm asking."

Jane looks over at her, takes in her earnest green eyes. And the lack of familiarity in them makes his heart physically ache. This, ultimately, is what makes him relent.

"If we try this," he says, "and it works, it's likely that you won't remember anything that happened in your fugue state. Your mind will lock up those memories. You'll wake up, and the last thing you'll remember will be the forest." He pauses. "Given that this is successful, I could try to unlock your fugue memories as well, but I think we should leave them be. For the time being, anyway."

Lisbon nods, biting her lip, and the relief emanating from her is palpable. "Thank you," she says, her voice stronger than a whisper but every bit as soft.

"Don't thank me until you get your memories back," says Jane darkly, moving to get out of the car.

Lisbon reaches out to touch his elbow. "Wait," she says. He turns back to her, confused.

"You said my mind would lock up my fugue memories. Does that mean I'll still have them but won't be able to access them?"

Jane nods.

Lisbon takes a deep, steadying breath and leans over to Jane, placing her hand on his jaw and guiding his lips to hers.

Jane freezes for an instant, his senses overwhelmed. Then he reaches out, placing a tentative hand on the side of Lisbon's neck, tangling in her hair. He knows he's shaking, and he knows she can feel the tremors in his hand. Lisbon's erratic breathing tells him he's not the only one affected.

He touches his tongue to her lips, seeking permission that is quickly granted. After a few seconds of exploring her, he pulls back slightly, his eyes still closed, and he breathes heavily before returning.

She pulls away after another minute and rests her forehead against his.

"What was that for?" he asks, breathless.

"When you give me back my memories," says Lisbon, breathing hard, "they're going to wrap around me like armor, like Kevlar. I'm not going to be in a position to let you close to me for a very long time. I don't know much about who I was before, but I know this."

Jane just looks at her. "You wanted to lock that memory away. To save it."

"Yes. And I wanted you to have it, too. Tuck it someplace safe in your memory palace, and remind me of it when the time is right."

"After Red John." It's not a question.

Lisbon nods. "It's dangerous for me to remember this when he's out there, looking to exploit our weaknesses. But you're better than I am at hiding things, and you can hide this from him."

"I can do that." He rubs his thumb back and forth on her collarbone. "See you on the other side?"

Lisbon chuckles nervously. "I hope so," she says.

They climb out of the car.

He puts his hand on the small of her back, and the darkness swallows them.