As promised to many of you, this is the multi-chapter installment leading up to the conclusion of the Holiday/Next Time Series. The title of each chapter is a line taken from a traditional Western Christmas carol. When I started this series a year ago, it was with a Christmas one-shot that led some readers to request a series for the holidays which, in turn, inspired me to try and meet the challenge. I am so grateful for the support and encouragement you've all given me through reading and reviewing these little stories. I hope you enjoy this next offering.

Number 11 in the Holiday/Next Time Series

THE TWELVE DAYS OF CRIMSON

Previously, in "Safely Gathered In", the Thanksgiving "Next Time" installment, in which Red John is actually dead by Jane's hand:

. . . after Jane fell off of a mountain and broke through the ice, after Lisbon took his hand in the hospital and forgave, after they all went back to the CBI knowing everything was changed but still not sure exactly where they stood, when Thanksgiving was gone and Christmas had been ushered in, against all odds, and from the grave . . .

Red John took another wife.

1. THE HOPES AND FEARS
- O Little Town of Bethlehem

"I thought . . . I mean . . . Jane was sure, right? We were all sure?"

Lisbon well understood Rigsby's bewilderment. Every Red John scene they had viewed over the past several years had left them frustrated and dismayed. But to see it like this, when they were so positive it was over . . .

"Yeah, Wayne," she answered thickly. "We were—we are sure."

"Then what . . .?"

"It's someone else."

"A copycat?"

The defeat in those two words alone was heartbreaking, and it took everything in her to not give into it herself. For the first time, her primary consideration couldn't be how Jane was taking the situation. Red John had taken something from all of them, even in the last moments of his life. She turned and surveyed the rest of her team: Rigsby, wide-eyed and haunted, swallowing almost convulsively, trying desperately to keep his despair in check; Cho, closed mouthed, his posture rigid, gritting his teeth so hard she could almost hear the crackle of his tensed jaw; Jane, breathing deep and measured, only his eyes moving from place to place, article to article, taking in the scene in its entirety as well as piece by piece but unmoving as if he didn't want to startle the rest of them.

Her eyes came to rest on Grace. Standing at the window, she had turned her back on the scene. Like Lisbon's second, Van Pelt's lips were sealed into a thin, grim line. But where Cho was fiercely irritated and frustrated by the situation, the forward thrust of the young agent's jaw and hard glittering of her eyes gave away her true feelings.

She was angry. That didn't concern Lisbon—she understood the feeling. Van Pelt had lost more than anyone in the final exchange, even Jane with his initial shock and eventual emotional upheaval. Lisbon shuddered at her own hurt and grief over the way Red John had ended. At least she was getting something of what she had lost back. What was of concern to the unit leader now and what she had only scant seconds to wonder at was that Grace didn't seem surprised.

The CSU at her side tentatively touched her elbow, and she realized she had missed his soft query as to whether they could start work on the scene. She raised her palm to him, softly commanded, "Give us a minute", and turned back to the room, his solemn nod an assurance that they wouldn't be bothered until they were well and truly finished. Their exchange caused a shift in the room, and when Jane's eyes drifted to hers and she gave him a small nod of permission, he began to roam, taking his hands from his pockets to touch a picture here, a scribbled note there. The spell broken, the others came to life, taking pictures and making quiet comments to draw attention to anything that may be of importance, even Jane sharing observations, each of them willing all of them to see and know everything worth knowing, the consummate team.

It had been hard for him to believe at first that it was over, even as he had lain on the jail cell cot looking up at the uneven plaster work of the ceiling. It had been just as difficult to grasp that Red John had become so much a fixture in his life that not only had Jane been unable to consider what his life might be like once the murderer was gone, in those first few days he had been nonplussed by his inability to contemplate life without him. Eventually, the bizarreness of it all had worn off, and his psyche had righted itself, acclimating to the possibility of life going on, as well as his actually living it. He was just settling in to the idea mostly, he was willing to admit, due to the ongoing healing of his relationship with Lisbon. He attributed the shock at what he saw before him to the newness of it all. And although he was shocked, he counted his lack of foresight of this probability to be the real failing.

Of course, Red John would have had friends—followers. It would have been foolhardy to believe they would merely go their own way, back to normal lives or, what was more likely, attach themselves to some other psychopath. They would want retribution, want someone to pay. What confused him was why not him? Why this girl?

And girl she was. He judged that she couldn't have been more that nineteen or twenty years old. She had managed to snag a single in a C.S.U. Sacramento dorm, and coursework from an advanced anatomy class laid spread out across her desk. A pair of discarded scrub pants hanging over her chair—she had worn the top to bed—evidenced her field of study as nursing, probably second or third year. He reached beyond the obvious, trying for a deeper glimpse of her. A photograph of her with an older couple he assumed to be her parents, judging by her resemblance to the man, had been taken fairly recently. The smiling faces were genuinely happy. Another picture of the victim with a dog and a boy roughly four years her junior, autumn-colored trees behind them evenly spaced and as well manicured as the grass, indicated a single sibling judging by the shared similarity between eye and brow, as well as a smile matching that of the woman in the other photograph. He paused in his perusals to turn his head and look over his shoulder at the sound of Cho's voice.

"Driver's license says her name is Chelsea Carlisle. Just turned twenty last week. License is about two-and-a-half years old." He held it in his latex-gloved hand, the other hand holding her woven purse open for further search. His lips pushed together hard in a grimace. "Organ donor."

"Well, that's moot now," Jane said somewhat distractedly as he turned back to his own investigating. Something about this was wrong. Not just the regular and completely understandable wrong, but an irregular, scratching-at-the-back-of-his-brain wrong. It was just out of reach, and he was immediately frustrated and worried that he couldn't put his intellectual finger on it.

"The date on the license suggests she's probably from out of state. Maybe took up residence here, probably going to summer school," Lisbon's voice cut through his musings.

"Most likely from the Midwest. North," Jane interjected. "Lived in the city. Near a park."

Lisbon nodded in acceptance not bothering to ask how he might know that. "Van Pelt, find the RA. If he's done throwing up maybe you can get something useful out of him. Then call the school of nursing and see if you can get more background on her."

Van Pelt strode from the room to carry out orders, Lisbon's eyes on her, Jane's eyes on Lisbon. Cho had brought Chelsea Carlisle's purse to her desk and dropped it in favor of her book satchel. Without turning his gaze from their leader, Jane's quiet voice floated back to the agent.

"She seem worked up to you? A little more . . . angsty than usual?"

Cho paused in his examination of biology, chemistry and literature books and followed the consultant's line of sight.

"Which one?"

"The red-headed one."

"Yeah." His head dipped to get a better look at the bag's interior. "She's been pretty keyed up since we got the call. Hasn't said a word since we headed down to the parking lot."

Cho paused to look back at Jane, discomfited by his continued preoccupation with the subject instead of the case at hand as well as his continued staring at Lisbon.

"It's understandable," the agent reasoned. "O'Laughlin . . . and everything really screwed with her head. It'll take a while for her to get over it."

"Understandable," Jane muttered, one hand out of his pocket now, trailing slowly up and down his vest.

"Hey," Cho elbowed him. "You on this?"

Jane turned abruptly at the tone of voice and realized the simple question indicated a more complicated concern, probably several of them.

"Yeah. Yes. I'm fine. Just taking everything in."

Cho gave a single nod, satisfied enough with the answer, before putting the books back and dropping purse and satchel into a CSU box. Lisbon queried a "Finished?" to which Jane gave a suddenly alert nod, and they left the scene to the techs.

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Chelsea Carlisle was from a happy home in St. Paul, Minnesota. She had practically grown up on the soccer fields playing mid, and the family still had the golden retriever she'd gotten as a fourteenth birthday present. She was a 4.0 student, over achiever and enjoyed it, natural-born leader and high school senior class president. Jane knew the only positive for Lisbon was that she wasn't the one that had to inform the family. On the flip-side, he knew she wasn't looking forward to interviewing them or the obligatory visit to the morgue.

He stood just outside the break room, teacup in hand, and gently blew across the top of the steaming liquid watching Lisbon where she sat in her office. She was staring at her laptop, and he knew that if the blinds were drawn she would have given into the urge to lean her head into her hands. With them open, it would be most uncharacteristic of her to give herself away in an action that would suggest weakness or hopelessness, especially in view of the troops.

So, when she pushed the computer away, crossed her arms and lowered her head to rest on them, his feet were moving, carrying him to her before the shock registered. Pushing through her door, he immediately walked to the corner table and rested his cup and saucer there before moving around the room to quickly and quietly close the blinds. The fact that she didn't raise her head to question him about it had his concern mounting exponentially.

All blind cords pulled and the outside world shut away, he turned to her, realizing at the last moment that his hand was outstretched, reaching for her. He paused, uncertain for a moment, before letting it drop, instead walking back to collect his tea then moving to the couch where he sipped without tasting and waited. As always when he had a quiet moment, thoughts of the small woman now sitting a few feet away from him and silently falling apart before she pulled herself back together mounted a barrage against him.

He knew the others thought she had forgiven him for killing Red John, for—what was in her mind—murdering him. And he knew she was right to hold that opinion. Even though he hadn't planned it for that particular day, even though using a gun hadn't been his first choice, even though a jury had acquitted him of the deed, the thought of it had been seven-plus years in the premeditating. But he had come to know Lisbon over the years and much better in the past few months. She was pragmatic but complex, predictable but deep, closed off but capable of great feeling. In the end, she had realized her forgiveness wasn't necessary. Jane's offense in its purity was not against her. The obstacle had been her inability to accept; accept that he had done what he had always said he would do, accept that a jury had acquitted (not actually found him innocent) and—what was most difficult for her—accepted that what had begun as measuring the worth of everyone around him by their usefulness in fulfilling his vengeful quest had resulted in his finding and responding to their worth as people, colleagues and finally friends. While she could find fault with his initial attitude towards the team, and specifically herself, where he had ended up served, as far as she was concerned, as absolution enough.

But it had not taken Jane long to discover that he could not be content with absolution alone. Their relationship going back to a more even footing with a few remaining rough patches, a less smooth version of what they had before left him annoyingly dissatisfied. For the first time in eight years, he found himself wanting more than he had, and his irritation left him privately chafing to the point of grinding his teeth. Luckily for him, between bio-rhythms and mind-over-matter and long years' experience at effortlessly manufacturing unmitigated bull, he was able to keep his desires as well as his frustrations hidden from them all.

"What's going on with you?" Lisbon's muffled voice floated to him, the question momentarily derailing his calm.

"Nothing's going on with me," he blustered, catching himself before he continued with a juvenile "What's going on with you?" Instead he closed his eyes and inhaled briefly, making another start. "I think the case has us all at odds. No reason why I should be any different, given the circumstances."

She lifted her head wearily, leaning it against one raised palm, upper body still slumped forward.

"I don't mean that." She frowned in consideration. "Well, I guess I do. But not just that. There's something up with you, and I want to know what it is."

I have feelings for you, and I can't seem to wade through the psychological morass?

I've just been wondering why you never wear that red top anymore?

Remember when I said those things in the hospital that you've come to believe were spoken under the influence of very strong pain medication and later forgotten but every word of which I remember very clearly and would like to know your thoughts regarding?

Discarding all of those for starters and wondering, not for the first time, at his overall ineptness at such things in her presence, he decided to take a bold step and wing it.

"Everything is different. My life is different. Well, except for this morning everything is different. But even that was different. I mean, the same but in a different way. Different is good, I guess. Right? Different can be good. Unless it's bad, a bad kind of different. Which is what this morning was. But beside something as astronomically unlikely . . ." He let his voice trail off and grimaced into his cold tea. Gad, he sounded like Rigsby.

"Jane." Her voice was weighted with fatigue, but he could still hear the amusement in it. So much for winging it. He would never wing again. He sighed heavily.

"Lisbon." He paused, still not knowing exactly what he was going to say and finally met her eyes. So calm. So patient. He realized he didn't have to know exactly the right thing to say, and she was willing to give him time. Not for the first time, those jade eyes and that damned way she had of sucking the truth out of him by just looking at him had the words tumbling out before he realized what he was saying.

"Sometimes I miss the way we were before."

Surprise sparked in her gaze, but it was quickly replaced by acceptance. She had a way of doing that too—accepting something like that, something that should have been huge without drawing it out or fussing over it. She just absorbed it without any sign of expectation.

"I know. Sometimes I miss it too." A sympathetic look passed between them. "But it's not so bad, is it? We're still friends, still working together."

"I hope you'll understand if I don't consider 'not so bad' to be particularly stellar."

She straightened a little more in her chair, lifting her head but still leaning her folded arms on the desk, looking more relaxed than weary.

"Jane," she said again, this time her voice warm with comfort. "We took a giant step back. But we're moving forward again. Maybe in a different direction—" He fought the impulse to throw his saucer across the room. "—but we'll be fine."

Fine didn't sound anywhere close to where he was coming to suspect he wanted to be.

"As long as you don't do anything stupid."

Her eyes were laughing at him, and his narrowed in response.

"You're a real minx, you now that?"

"I guess I should take that as some kind of sexist compliment?"

"No. That would imply I've thought of other women the same way. You, my dear, are in a class all by yourself."

She sat up a little straighter, and he was pleased that she was fighting preening at his honest flattery. Marveling at this oasis they'd managed to make in the macabre horror fate and the morning had brought them, he sipped his tea and made a show of distaste.

"I'm going to make a fresh cup," he announced, rising from his seat. "Do you want anything?" he asked, hoping she would catch his intention to return and not throw up any blocks against it.

"No thanks," she answered, straightening and pulling the laptop back in place. "I'm good. I'll send Rigsby for some lunch in a bit."

He paused at the threshold and turned back just enough to look at her over his shoulder. "So . . .," he drawled and waited for her to look up at him. ". . . Not so bad?"

She grinned softly, bright and true, and answered quietly. "Not so bad."

Lisbon turned back to her computer and the case, and Jane headed to the break room, deciding on tea for himself and bottled water for her and that "not so bad" was a pretty good place to start.