Title: Watershed
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Yeah, right.
Spoilers/Timeline: Set one year after the events of 2x20 (Red All Over). Everything before that is fair game.
Summary: Red John was dead: to begin with.
Author's Note: About a month ago, I had a conversation with a friend about the progression of the Red John story on the show and what could happen as fallout. I found myself inspired to explore that aftermath, in particular the individual reactions of both Jane and Lisbon, and the changes (or otherwise) in their relationship. This is the result. I should also mention that I very directly paraphrase Charles Dickens in the opening line of this story, so consider that a second disclaimer.

Huge thanks to Yana who, on top of editing duties, allowed me to railroad her into being my second set of ears as I brainstormed. This fic is going to be quite a journey, so she has her work cut out for her.

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Now I will unsettle the ground beneath you
Send my waters ashore
Creep into your bed
Find you in ever corner
-Vienna Teng, "Watershed"

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prologue

Red John was dead: to begin with.

He died nine months ago; bled out slowly from a bullet buried deep in his abdomen. She had been the one to kill him, and never in her career had it felt more rewarding, almost gratifying, to sign an incident report and close a case.

But that was July, and now it is April, exactly nine months later. Teresa Lisbon sighs reflectively and steps out onto her front steps, breathing in the cool morning air. She fumbles with her keys before sliding the correct one into the lock, the dead bolt latching with a muted click. The skies above are overcast and gray; quite fitting, she thinks, considering the date.

She turns and descends the steps, feet pounding softly against the sidewalk as she strides out to her car.

"Hey, Teresa!"

Her body whips around at the interjection, and she registers the sight of her next door neighbor, breathing heavily as the younger woman completes the final leg of her morning run.

"Good morning, Anna," Lisbon greets her neighbor with a quick wave as the energetic redhead slows to a jog before disappearing behind her own front door.

Shifting her attention back to the day ahead of her, Lisbon depresses the remote lock and opens the car door. She turns the key in the ignition, and the engine hums softly as she maneuvers onto the otherwise empty streets.

Twenty minutes later, she flashes her badge at the security checkpoint and pulls into the CBI parking lot. A quick glance at the clock on her dashboard reminds her that it is just after seven AM, which explains the mostly deserted lot. Even of those considered to be California's finest, few willingly choose to arrive at work early on a Monday morning.

The CBI does not assign parking spaces, but Lisbon maneuvers the Mustang into her usual spot and kills the engine. In her peripheral vision, she notices the familiar sight of Jane's Citroën DS parked next to several standard-issue SUVs and acknowledges a sense of relief that the car is at least parked in a different spot than when she left the office late Saturday night. Although she wouldn't put it past Jane to move the car just to give her the illusion that he had not spent the entire weekend sprawled out in his customary position on the couch.

Lisbon worries about Jane, perhaps more so because there seem to be no significant changes, no alterations in his behavior, after Red John; and, she sees everything as before and after now.

On the days, before, when she considered the possibilities that didn't include Red John dead and Jane incarcerated -- or worse, she never once expected him to stay. In fact, when scenario became reality and Jane was still a free man, Lisbon assumed it was only a matter of time before his letter of resignation turned up on her desk. For nearly a full week, she attended press conferences and answered to the media, politely and graciously fulfilling her duties as Senior Agent; Jane remained visibly absent. That week culminated in an official commendation from both the Governor and Attorney General, and as soon as possible, Lisbon put in her request to utilize some of her long-accumulated vacation time.

When she returned, she found Jane napping on the sofa as Cho aptly directed Rigbsy and Van Pelt on an open-and-shut (boring) case as though absolutely nothing had changed.

At times it still unnerves her that Jane has not mentioned Red John since. Not once.

She shakes her head at her own musings as she enters the building; she tries not to dwell on these thoughts too often. The lobby is noticeably empty, even for such an early hour, and the elevator is already waiting as soon as she depresses the call button.

Still chiding herself for her earlier ruminations, the familiar chime echoes as the doors slide open, and the elevator deposits her on the appropriate floor.

Lisbon treads purposefully down the hall and into the bullpen which, like the rest of the building, stands mostly unoccupied. With the exception of a man in an expensive gray suit, head bent over what she can only assume is either one of his Sudoku puzzles or one of Cho's novels.

Although she promised herself never to disturb a sleeping Jane, she has no qualms about interrupting an idle or nosy Jane; she does not miss a step as she wishes him a good morning and reaches for the latch on her office door.

The door clicks softly behind her as she relinquishes her personal effects to their respective places. Lisbon casts a quick glance out the window towards the gray skies that loom overhead before settling down at her desk and booting up her computer. From the looks of her in tray, there is plenty to keep her occupied well into the afternoon on what is shaping up to be an extremely ordinary Monday.

Not that she would ever complain.

When a soft knock on the door interrupts her, she is signing off on Rigsby's latest case report and separating the important paperwork from the never-ending onslaught of requests from other departments for a temporary 'loan' of Jane's services. The clock on her computer screen tells her that not half an hour has passed since she arrived in the building, which indicates her interrupter could only be one man.

She sets her pen down on her desk and files Rigsby's report in her out tray. With a quiet cough, she clears her throat. "Come on in, Jane."

Her office door jumps open and he appears, pristine suit and thousand watt smile in place, coffee cup in his outstretched hand. "Thought you could use a pick me up," he says; a soft thud as he places the cup down on the table.

Lisbon quirks an eyebrow but closes her hand on the rough cardboard sleeve nonetheless. "This better not be decaf," she deadpans before bringing the cup to her lips. The bitter liquid leaves a pleasant burn as it coats her throat, eliciting a contended sigh. "Did you get this from that new place next to the deli?"

Jane nods, gesturing with the hand that holds an identical cup. "They have an excellent tea selection," he explains. He lingers at the edge of her desk for just a moment longer before retreating to her couch; his eyes sparkle playfully as he sinks into a sitting position.

Reaching for the next file in her in tray, she casts a cautious glance at her office visitor. His eyes are softer now, worn and weary, unfocused and unguarded; for just a fraction of a second.

Although Jane predominantly continues to be Jane, in the after, Lisbon takes note of the rare glimpses, brief interludes, when he seems to be real. Maybe even vulnerable.

But those moments never last long, and Jane's best showman façade returns with a vengeance. "That must be a truly fascinating read," he smirks, smug and nonchalant. "Are you always so enthralled by the minutes from the monthly budget meetings?"

She laughs, prepared to tell him exactly where he can shove the aforementioned minutes, when the shrill beeping of her office phone interrupts. Saved by the switchboard, she thinks, as she cradles the receiver against her ear.

Lisbon listens attentively, jotting down an address as a highway patrolman alerts her to a body found at a rest stop off of I-80 at 5:30 that morning. She accepts the case, assuring the officer that she and her team will be along within the hour, and returns the receiver to its customary position with an inaudible click.

"New case?" Jane leans his upper body forward, pushing against his knees with his free hand, and slowly stretches until he is once again standing. He grins at her with his usual bravado, straightening his vest dramatically.

She rolls her eyes in response. Sometimes, it seems so easy to just be around Jane, to slip back into their old patterns, that she allows herself the brief luxury of forgetting that everything has changed.

She retrieves her coat and checks her hip holster, ensuring that both badge and weapon are properly in place, and pretends not to notice the way his hand lingers on the small of her back as he makes a show of holding the office door open for her.

Her keys jingle in her hands as they reach the elevator. She tilts her head just slightly and announces, with authority, "I'm driving."

xxx

The drive down I-80 is mostly uneventful. While Lisbon calls Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt to inform them of their revised morning plans, Jane reclines in the passenger seat, only fidgeting when he finds their current radio selection displeasing.

Forty minutes and several threatening glares later, the bright green highway sign alerts her that they are close to the crime scene. Her hand catches on the turn signal and she maneuvers across traffic, pulling off on the exit ramp.

The rest stop is noticeably full for this hour on a Monday morning, and Lisbon releases an audible groan when she catches sight of a small crowd of onlookers with camera phones, all ogling for a closer look. She locates the corner of the lot as far away from the crowd and commotion as possible before pulling into a space and putting the car in park.

"Just great," she mumbles under her breath.

She slides out of the SUV, emphatically slamming the door behind her, and heads, determined, toward the sealed-off area near the opposite end of the lot. Jane silently falls into stride beside her. Forcing her way through the throngs of enthusiastic observers, she ducks under the yellow crime scene tape and nods at the small group of local law enforcement officers who have assembled.

"I'm Agent Teresa Lisbon and this," she motions to her side, "is Patrick Jane. We're with CBI."

The man who steps forward to meet her firm handshake appears to be in his early 50s. His dark hair shows signs of graying and his forehead does not hide age-appropriate wrinkles. "Sheriff Paul Mackenzie." He turns to shake Jane's hand as well, but Jane's attention has landed on several members of the drawn crowd. Mackenzie frowns and drops his hand by his side. "Local highway patrol called me as soon as they found the body," he drawls, "but I took one look and thought this falls under your jurisdiction. Public highway and all."

"Of course," Lisbon gives a stiff nod of her head and whips her body around, ensuring that Jane is not causing any trouble. Satisfied, she addresses the sheriff once more. "What do you know so far?"

Mackenzie's eyes narrow, looking down at her as though she'd suddenly grown a third eye. "Female. Late 30s, early 40s. This looks like a dump site." He speaks with hesitation; when she purses her lips in impatience, he simply shrugs his shoulders. "We figured we'd leave the body be and let your people do their thing."

In her resolve, Lisbon nods and calls for Jane. Turning back to Mackenzie, she attempts to mask her exasperation. "My team is on its way. Can you try to do some crowd control?"

"Of course," Mackenzie agrees. "We did look for ID, but our killer didn't leave any on her. Took her wallet. I was thinking maybe a mugging gone wrong?"

Distracted by her attempts to conceal her annoyance, she is completely unprepared when she catches her first glimpse of the body.

She feels, rather than sees, Jane stiffen at her side. Frozen in place, her blood runs cold as she takes in the sight before her.

Young woman, late 30s; bleach blonde hair, average height, and just slightly overweight.

Skin ghostly pale, marred by dried blood and innumerable knife wounds.

An unfamiliar voice breaks her trance. She swallows as one of the sheriff's deputies remarks in a naive sense of self-importance, "You think you'll get a hit running her through the missing person's database?"

In her peripheral vision, Jane stands motionless; she wonders, for a moment, if he is even breathing.

"There's no need," Lisbon answers, barely able to recognize the sound of her own voice. "This is Jennifer Howell. She is -- she was Red John's wife."

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