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The taunting voicemail was still playing on a loop in Patrick Jane’s mind.
You took my better half, Mr Jane.
And now I’ve got yours.
Let’s see if you’re really as smart as you think you are.
Tick Tock.
Three days.
Three days of no sleep, of manic deduction, tearing apart every lead until his hands shook and his eyes burned. The location that they’d found was a product of that guilt, that desperation, that sleeplessness.
“You need sleep, Jane,” Risgby told him, flooring the accelerator as they neared the hunting cabin where Jane was certain Porter was holding Lisbon.
“Not until we find Lisbon,” he repeated, sick and tired of everyone concerned about him when they should have been concerned about Lisbon.
He could take care of himself just fine.
*
They arrived at the cabin less than an hour later, the small army of CBI agents that Risgby and Cho had managed to corral, breaching the cabin, Jane not waiting until he heard the all clear from anyone.
“Lisbon!” He yelled, the only noise coming from the dozen pairs of boots pacing through the massive cabin.
He looked around, the echoes of Clear, Clear weighing heavily on him.
She must be here.
Where are you, Teresa?
He dashed outside, taking note of the three smaller outbuildings, and then the uncharacteristically tall pile of detritus to the left of where they’d left their cars.
He approached it, wildly pulling the pile apart the pile, his hunch correct that there was something hiding underneath it.
Trapdoors angled downward, locked by a padlock.
“Jane?” Cho called out, noticing the consultant outside.
“I need bolt cutters, Cho,” he yelled, and Kimball obliged, cutting the lock and helping Jane pull the doors upwards, yelling at the other agents to make their way to them.
Patrick wasn’t waiting for them.
“Lisbon? Lisbon?” He yelled, pushing through the dark, bumping into a shelf.
He let out a grumble, and Cho appeared, handing him a flashlight.
“This is why you wait,” he pointed out, knowing that Patrick would process that information for a grand total of thirty seconds before doing it his way.
“Lisbon!” He called out again, navigating the maze of the shelves with everything one would need to effectively live off the grid for months.
He turned as he passed another row of shelves, freezing when the beam of light cast a shadow over the hunched individual curled up in the corner.
He broke out into a sprint of sorts, dropping to his knees and tilting the head of the figure, both relieved and horrified when he confirmed that it was, indeed, her.
“Lisbon, Lisbon, can you hear me?” he shook her shoulder, all the while he kept his eye on the bruises across her face, her split lip, and what looked like dried blood smeared on her blouse.
He reached into his pocket, grabbing the penknife that Teresa had gifted to him at the end of their makeshift honeymoon, cutting through the zip-ties that kept her glued to a radiator pipe.
She slumped forward, and he caught her before she crashed to the ground, leaning her against the wall.
“Jane, you clear?” Cho called out, and Jane responded that he had found her.
He found her.
But that wasn’t enough.
“Lisbon, open your eyes. Talk to me. Give me a sign you’re alive,” he begged, cupping her face gently, watching as she shifted slightly, before opening her eyes, fear in them as she lifted her hands and tried to fight Jane.
He caught them, talking to her until she stopped struggling, realising he was not there to harm her, but to help.
“That… really you… Jane?” she slurred, concerning Jane some more.
What had Porter given her?
“Yes, I’m here,” he choked out, “I got you.”
He tried to scoop her up, but was met with a whimper of pain from Teresa. He froze for just a second, and Teresa grabbed at his shirt, mumbling something.
“Shh, Teresa, you can tell me later. First, let me get you out of here. This is going to hurt a bit, sorry,” he apologised some more, scooping her into his arms, feeling something wet against his shirt.
Fuck, she was bleeding.
He couldn’t stop thinking about that now.
He needed to get her to the medics before it was too late.
“I’m sorry,” he carried on talking as he walked the path he had come in from, carrying Lisbon as though she weighed nothing more than a feather, “This is my fault, Lisbon. I didn’t mean to get you into this mess. It should have been me.”
Me.
He got closer to the haphazard stairs, the beam from half a dozen flashlights lighting his path up, letting him see her injuries better.
The bruises. The cuts. The blood.
Those were all meant for me.
“Lisbon, you still with me?” he asked, feeling more so than hearing her groan in response.
Good.
They made it up the stairs, Cho and Rigsby holstering their weapons and ushering Patrick into one of the SUVs.
“Medics?” he questioned, and Cho just shook his head.
“At least ten out. We’re going to meet them halfway,” he explained as he hopped into the driver's seat, Rigsby gently helping Jane to place Teresa across the backseat before Jane himself scooted in, Rigsby staying back to maintain control of the scene, perhaps even see if they could find more clues as to where Porter was now.
Halfway across the ocean, if he knew what was good for him, Patrick thought.
Lisbon mumbled something further, and Jane lowered his ear towards her face, trying to make out what she was saying.
“Co.. cold, Jane,” he managed to catch, and he managed to squeeze out of his own jacket, gently casting it over her whilst making sure he kept his hand firmly over a gash that he must have reopened as he carried her out of there.
“How is she doing, Jane?” Cho asked as he got onto an actual road, not slowing down much for the turn.
“She’s alive, but she’s still bleeding. Cho, go faster.”
And then he went back to gripping, staring at her intently, as if she’d slip away if he even blinked.
It was his fault she was in this mess.
The least, absolute least, he could do was to make sure she made it through.
And hope that she forgave him for everything she went through.