AN: Oh, dear. Is this another multichapter? Yes, it appears to be another multichapter. I'm hesitant to tell you how many chapters this is slated for; my stories tend to randomly take on lives of their own and morph into something I can't even recognize as the original idea by the end. Seriously, about 50% of what happened in Burnt Offerings I made up as I went along. It was ridiculous.

I was going to wait and post this until after "Red Barn" aired, but I have no self-control.

Ah, well. Away we go!

Rebuilding the Sun

Chapter One

It was the waiting that was the hardest.

Teresa Lisbon wasn't a particularly patient person at the best of times, and this specific moment certainly didn't qualify as the best of times.

She was leaning distractedly against her SUV, eyes trained on the abandoned building in front of them, currently illuminated by the harsh glare of halogen lights, the glossy yellow of crime scene tape adding a pop of color against the backdrop of grays and blacks.

From her vantage point, she could see the mass of bodies that made up the local media starting to congregate. As yet, she hadn't spotted any national trucks, but it was only a matter of time. She wondered what the headlines would read tomorrow.

Notorious Serial Killer Gunned Down by CBI Agents

Maybe someone would get creative.

A Red Letter Day for California Law Enforcement

Of course, there would always be the English majors going for poignancy.

Reign of Terror Finally Ends: Red John Falls

Bertram was going to try to get her to do an interview. She knew that without even having talked to the man tonight. He was probably dancing around his office with something approaching glee. They had managed to make the news again, but this time, it would give him laurels to rest on.

A solitary figure walked out of a hidden side-entrance to the building. Even from her current distance, she knew it was Jane.

Silently, she let out a relieved breath. Part of her had been worried that he would refuse to leave the scene, refuse to stop staring at the bloodied remains of the man whose death had been the sole focus of Jane's existence for the past decade.

She would give ten years of her life to know what he was thinking at this moment. If he was even thinking anymore, she amended. It was a wonder that she herself was.

It had been the most exhaustive day she could remember having.

Early that morning, they had gotten a call from the Sac PD, informing them that another Red John victim had been discovered. In typical fashion, Jane had taken over the scene, his responses to her anxious questions short and concise.

Like every other case, there were no fingerprints at the scene, and nothing that could be used for DNA. By all accounts, a dead end.

But then, Rigsby had brought them the unexpected news that the victim's neighbor across the street had been a peeping tom, so to speak. While it was normally a reprehensible thing, in this case, it was a God-send.

Instead of relying on ladders and binoculars, this particular pervert had a camera that he employed regularly.

Including last night.

The team had started the footage, both excited and repulsed by the prospect of what they were about to see on the video.

Like she'd expected, they never saw Red John's face. He was no more than a dark blur against the even deeper black of the Sacramento night. She thought she saw his shadow cross in front of the victim's bedroom window, but perhaps it was her imagination.

There was a period where nothing happened on the recording. Looking mildly nauseous, Grace sped the playback up.

The killer exited the house the same way he entered - the front door. It was brazen, arrogant. Beside her, she felt Jane's eyes hungrily follow the man's every move. She wanted to tell him to take a step back, but she knew it would do no good.

Though there were no clearer images of Red John, they did manage to get a look at his car.

More importantly, they saw the first two letters of his license plate.

For the next several hours, it seemed as though everyone in the CBI was frantically running background checks on everyone in the state that owned late model Jeeps with the correct plates.

Occasionally, someone would point out a particularly promising candidate, listing priors and family histories. Jane, listening raptly, a pile of his own research on his lap, would shake his head from time to time, dismissing a potential killer for one reason or another.

Until the name of Blake Williamson appeared.

Lisbon knew enough of the Red John case that she'd caught the connection without Jane's prompting.

He held her eyes as Grace rattled off the information she had.

"It's him," Jane said, almost before the other agent had finished talking.

The rest of the team blinked. From the corner of her eye, Lisbon saw the awareness take over Cho's posture as he, too, realized why Jane was certain.

"William Blake," he said. "Of course."

Within an hour, they'd been on the road, warrants in hand. Silently, she prayed that there would be enough evidence to get the man arrested. She knew very well that if they allowed Red John to leave their custody, he would disappear, and she had no desire to devote another decade of her life to his games.

Jane was ominously silent in the passenger seat, and she tried to put herself in his shoes. As far as she knew, this was the only time they had ever truly had a Red John suspect in their sights. There had been other names that had been toyed with, but there was never anything that even touched circumstantial proof.

Williamson was nowhere to be found when they arrived. The warrants, however, were still good, so with a nod at Rigsby, the door was kicked in. Quickly, the team declared the building good, and Jane stepped in behind them.

For herself, Lisbon was quietly surprised at how normal the place seemed. Of course, she wasn't entirely sure what she'd been expecting in a serial killer's home. Heads in the freezer, perhaps, or small animals staked in the yard.

Instead, she found microsuede furniture, some brightly blooming geraniums, and a large amount of organic produce.

It seemed terrifyingly innocuous.

"Jane?" she asked once, finding him in what was clearly the master bedroom, done in shades of light blue and gold.

He was standing in front of a well-organized closet, arms crossed, looking so deep in thought that she wondered for a moment if he'd even heard her. Then he cleared his throat.

"Someone hired a pretty good decorator, didn't they?" he asked flippantly.

She didn't reply, and he turned to face her.

"Don't fret, Lisbon. Your evidence is here somewhere." His eyes slid past her to the bedside table. "He's just smart enough to not leave it in plain view."

He pulled the small drawer on the nightstand open. Inside was a thin book of poetry. Jane lifted it out. "The complete works of William Blake," he told her.

"Which proves nothing, other than he likes poetry," she replied.

With sure fingers, Jane flipped through the book, carefully turning the worn pages. He stopped abruptly, blinked once, then turned the anthology towards her.

The book was open to the page entitled "The Tyger." But what was noteworthy was the small, carefully drawn red smiley face beneath the heading.

"Good enough?" Jane asked, eyebrows raised.

"It's a start," she said, relief running through her voice. "Let's go arrest this son of a bitch."

"You do that," he responded.

Abruptly, she faced him. "Don't you dare," she warned him. "So help me God, Jane, I don't want to have to worry about you running after Williamson in some sort of revenge-fueled rage."

He gaze was even, but she saw his well-concealed emotions trying to come to the surface. "He's mine, Lisbon," he said quietly.

Her anger bubbled up. "Jane, the last time we were in this situation, it ended with you lying to a jury after shooting a man in the middle of a food court. I'm not going down that road again."

"Lisbon, surely you knew this was coming," he said, now looking almost like he couldn't believe her.

"If I have to, I'll put you in handcuffs," she told him, steel in her tone. "We're doing this the right way."

However, their argument ended the second they heard Cho yelling from the living room. "Black Jeep is going by, boss. I think it's our guy."

Running now, they made it to the yard just in time to see the vehicle speeding out of sight around the corner.

They had chased the SUV in the waning light of late afternoon, losing it eventually to a passing train. In frustration, Jane slammed his hands on the dashboard.

For the next hour, they drove the streets, looking for something, anything that would give them hope. On a whim, she took a left where Jane instructed her to go right.

In another three blocks, they passed a run-down garage, covered partially in tin and graffiti, one of its metal doors seemingly unable to shut properly.

The hair on the back of her neck rose, and she slowed their vehicle. Jane was out almost before she'd come to a complete stop, yanking the door fully open. Inside, just a shade too large to fit fully, the Jeep sat. The hood was still warm.

In another four minutes, a small army of agents and local police were on the scene, canvassing and looking for a lead.

Within twenty minutes, they had it. Looking back later, she would never remember what it was. But it took them to a large house with peeling paint and boarded windows.

Surrounded now by law enforcement, she hoped Jane would be forced to toss aside his ridiculous plan of being the one who single-handedly brought down Red John. It was stupid, thoughtless, and would lead to his death, she was sure.

When they saw a shadow move in the house, it was showtime.

Leaving Jane safely outside, the task force had moved in. Once, she caught his eyes as they crossed the street. He was anxious, restless, almost vibrating with suppressed emotion.

For just a second, he held her stare. "Be careful," he mouthed.

She nodded, frowning.

The next ten minutes were a blur of silent movement, pounding heartbeats, and abruptly, gun shots. She would never be able to recall exactly the sequence of precise moments that led to her standing over the crumpled body of what used to be California's most notorious serial killer, but that's where she suddenly found herself.

She had no idea how long she stood in silence, but she slowly became aware of Jane's presence at her back. He was utterly silent, but still, she knew he was there. It was some sort of strange sixth sense.

When she finally turned around, Jane hardly moved. His eyes flicked over her once, perhaps assuring himself that she was indeed alright, then returned to their primary point of focus.

His posture, the set of his face, screamed out his need for solitude in this moment, and she reluctantly left him. She could only hope that she wouldn't have to drag him out later.

The shelter of the SUV had seemed a little like a haven. Cho had taken care of most of the required details - statements to police and the like. He spoke with enough authority that no one questioned him, so she was free to try and disappear into the shadows.

For a few minutes, she had sat behind the wheel, fingers flexing compulsively around the supple rubber.

It was over.

At least once a day for the past nine years, she'd looked across the room at Jane and wondered if they would ever solve the case. Regardless of her encouraging words to him when his burden started to be overwhelming, she knew realistically that many serial killers were never caught. And this one was smarter than most.

However, here they were. Well, here she was. Jane was still standing on hard concrete, peering blankly down at a dead man.

Soon after that thought occurred, the interior of the Traverse became stifling. Hurriedly, she wrenched open the door, the cool night air grounding her, calming her severely frayed nerves.

And there she waited, not knowing what to expect, both from herself and from Jane.

When she saw him starting making his way towards her, her heart gave a betraying flutter. As his face came into view, she felt her breathing start to accelerate.

She would be lying if she said this scenario hadn't crossed her mind. The day that Patrick Jane, so haunted, so emotionally damaged, was free from his shackles and could restitch the unravelling threads of his existence. In her dreams, he had held on to life with one hand, and her with the other.

It was very clear in her mind's eye. He would wrap her in his arms, tell her he loved her and didn't want to live without her, and they would walk off into the sunset.

Only now there was no sun.

And Jane certainly didn't look like he was in the mood for romantic declarations.

He looked...almost absent, she decided, the warmth and humor gone from those green eyes she loved so much.

Perhaps he was in shock, she thought, and she instinctively reached for him. He didn't avoid her hand, but neither did he react to her touch.

His skin was cold, and she quickly removed her fingers from his cheek.

"Jane," she began, haltingly. "Are you okay?"

He nodded, focusing on her face. But there was nothing behind his eyes. "Just fine, Lisbon," he said, and his voice was surprisingly even. He took a deep breath, the first sign of any sort of emotion she'd seen. "I think I'm going to go for a walk," he added. "I have a lot to think about."

Frantically, she looked around. "Here?" she demanded. "Do you know what sort of neighborhood we're in?"

But he was already walking away again.

"Jane!" she called after him. "You're going to get mugged!"

He gave a wry chuckle, and there was absolutely no humor in it. "What could they possibly take from me that I haven't already lost, Lisbon?"

Clearly, it was a rhetorical question, and clearly, he didn't want her to answer.

Her first impulse was to go after him, but it would have been a futile exercise. Instead, she stared at his retreating back, wondering how something she'd looked forward to for almost a decade had gone so completely backward.

There were no lingering touches, no weighty smiles telling her that he had just been waiting for this moment to officially make her his, no warm brush of his lips against her skin.

She had been fully prepared to offer whatever comfort she was able - open arms, a stiff drink or six, a night on her couch, all three.

But there was just nothing.

She sucked in a deep breath, bracing herself. There was no point in wallowing in abruptly shattered fantasies.

Jane just needed some time to cope, that was it. After all, he had been living for revenge for almost a quarter of his life. Maybe he needed to wrap his mind around tonight's events.

She would see him tomorrow, anyway. It would certainly make her feel better if he was under her watchful eye. The idea of him wandering off tonight alone was deeply unsettling, but there wasn't a thing she could do about it.

Perhaps she should have done a better job of making sure he understood that she was there for him, whatever he needed.

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow would be better. It became her mantra: tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. Tomorrow she would start putting Patrick Jane back together.

She had no way of knowing then how very wrong she was.

AN: Oh, come on. You know you want to review this. Pretty please?