How Might This All End? #1 [The Mentalist]
Title: How Might This All End? - Back to White
Fandom: The Mentalist
Character(s): Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon
Pairing(s): none
Warning: Spoilers for season 1 ep 1 (Pilot), vague references to ep 10 (Red Brick and Ivy) and inspired by ep 15 (Scarlett Fever)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Naturally, I do not own The Mentalist or any of its characters. This is a non-profit fanfiction written by a fan, for the enjoyment of other fans.
Summary: How the Red John case might end for Patrick Jane.
Notes: Here goes a piece for the latest addition to my favourites - The Mentalist. (US TV series. Police investigations, CBI, deductions from observations (ala Sherlock Holmes style - not so detailedly explained but still fun), mind games, hypnotism. And a background of angst, tragedy, regret, love (not just romantic, also family) - life.) Actually, what I really would like to see is some quality case fic. I'm bad at writing those sort, or I'd be on it. Anyway, here's my first Mentalist fic. My first fic in a while? Purely written for fun as a possibility.
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Her heart clenches when she sees him through the hole in the door. He is sitting cross-legged in the sole bed in the room’s far corner, his eyes fixed unwavering on the opposite wall. Engulfed in a room of white walls, white frames, white cloths, the only colours, stark against the white, are the blond of his curls and the tan of his skin.
She steps back from the door, turning to the stout woman who has accompanied her. “Can I speak with him privately?”
The woman nods curtly, having earlier been shown her badge of authority. “He hasn’t shown any signs of violence since he came in. You’ll probably find him unresponsive. But in case anything happens, just yell and we will be with you in an instant.”
She nods in return, waits as the door is unbolted.
He does not look up at her footsteps as she steps in, nor at the sound of the door closing behind her.
“Jane?” She tries calling to him.
He makes no sign that he heard her. ‘Unresponsive’, right.
She stops a small distance from his bed. Close enough to discern the stubble he has allowed to line his jaw, far enough to not be invasive on his personal space.
He remains unmoving under her scrutiny.
Finally, she follows his gaze, drawn by his focus. She too stares at the opposite wall.
“What do you see, Lisbon?”
She jumps at his quiet voice, its tone so ordinary, they could have been at a crime scene and he’s pointing out something that he had seen and she had missed. For a fleeting moment, anger coils within her and she feels an impulse to whirl around, grab him by the front of his shirt, throw a balled fist hard into his face!
But she quickly collects herself. Calm and in control - it is something she has learnt to be, always strives to be, whatever the situation. Her voice is steady when she answers, “Nothing. I see nothing, Jane. Just a white wall.”
“I see nothing too.”
She hears the smile in his voice.
“Just a white wall.” He echoes her words.
She turns slowly, sees the contented smile on his lips; his eyes remain fixed on the wall.
“No Red John smiley.”
For the first time since she entered, his eyes leave the wall and meet hers in a calm gaze.
“No more Red John, Lisbon.”
There, her anger flares again. And this time, before she can stop herself, the words are out of her mouth, “Of course,” her tone a little colder than normal, almost accusatory, “You killed Red John.” Despite everything.
His smile widens at that (and she shivers), a child who has been given his candy and is savouring the lingering sweetness; his eyes don’t leave hers. “I did. I watched his blood spill and pool, heard his shuddering sobs of pain all the way to his dying breaths...” Abruptly, his smile drops, his eyes lower, his voice becomes a dark pained whisper. “As he had probably done with my love and my baby...” The last words are so faint, she can barely hear them.
She remembers a time so long ago when he explained to her his plans for Red John. Pushing and testing the boundaries of their relationship before he could decide to trust her, perhaps. Or maybe, he was simply hoping for her to stop him. She couldn’t tell exactly what he was thinking then, still can’t now. But being so explicitly informed that he will be hurtling himself towards arrest or death, she had tried to make him understand that killing Red John in cold blood was not the only option - had hoped that she had made some progress with that, or that she could at least be there to stop him if it ever came down to it. Yet, ultimately, she had failed. He had succeeded - the end had gone according to his “plan” like well-oiled machinery. And she, as though a mere pedestrian on the sidewalk watching a chain accident pile up, had been sickeningly helpless and completely unable to stop it all.
“Did it really make you feel better?”
His eyes lift to hers. She sees no mirth in his clear blue eyes, only a blank emotionless honesty.
“It feels like how I had come to expect it would feel,” he says softly.
Neither speaks as her mind registers his words. He has seen enough cases of murders fuelled by vengeance to know that ‘revenge is sweet’ is but a pretty lie.
“Your defense has pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity,” she tells him. We will likely succeed given his past psychiatric record. Dr Miller’s testimony has been beneficial for us. The voice of Mashburn's attorney sounds clear in her head. “You will probably not receive the death sentence.”
He tilts his head, gaze falling away, as he shrugs one shoulder, “It doesn’t really matter.”
“It does.”
He doesn’t respond.
She stares at his profile for a long moment before she retreats, telling him that she will come back.
Because seeing the void left by the loss of life’s remaining purpose in this man, who has sauntered into their lives - his smiles, arrogance, charm and brilliance hiding grief, regret, anger and pain - and touched them all, is unbearably heartbreaking. And she simply cannot, at this point, allow for him to see her cry.
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Date written: 18 October 2009
Edited on 28/12/2010: Revisited this before posting to a comm. It's vague enough that canon hasn't ran a truck over it, yet. But I couldn't help making some brief (probably unnoticeable XD) edits.
Fandom: The Mentalist
Character(s): Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon
Pairing(s): none
Warning: Spoilers for season 1 ep 1 (Pilot), vague references to ep 10 (Red Brick and Ivy) and inspired by ep 15 (Scarlett Fever)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Naturally, I do not own The Mentalist or any of its characters. This is a non-profit fanfiction written by a fan, for the enjoyment of other fans.
Summary: How the Red John case might end for Patrick Jane.
Notes: Here goes a piece for the latest addition to my favourites - The Mentalist. (US TV series. Police investigations, CBI, deductions from observations (ala Sherlock Holmes style - not so detailedly explained but still fun), mind games, hypnotism. And a background of angst, tragedy, regret, love (not just romantic, also family) - life.) Actually, what I really would like to see is some quality case fic. I'm bad at writing those sort, or I'd be on it. Anyway, here's my first Mentalist fic. My first fic in a while? Purely written for fun as a possibility.
------------------------------------------------
Her heart clenches when she sees him through the hole in the door. He is sitting cross-legged in the sole bed in the room’s far corner, his eyes fixed unwavering on the opposite wall. Engulfed in a room of white walls, white frames, white cloths, the only colours, stark against the white, are the blond of his curls and the tan of his skin.
She steps back from the door, turning to the stout woman who has accompanied her. “Can I speak with him privately?”
The woman nods curtly, having earlier been shown her badge of authority. “He hasn’t shown any signs of violence since he came in. You’ll probably find him unresponsive. But in case anything happens, just yell and we will be with you in an instant.”
She nods in return, waits as the door is unbolted.
He does not look up at her footsteps as she steps in, nor at the sound of the door closing behind her.
“Jane?” She tries calling to him.
He makes no sign that he heard her. ‘Unresponsive’, right.
She stops a small distance from his bed. Close enough to discern the stubble he has allowed to line his jaw, far enough to not be invasive on his personal space.
He remains unmoving under her scrutiny.
Finally, she follows his gaze, drawn by his focus. She too stares at the opposite wall.
“What do you see, Lisbon?”
She jumps at his quiet voice, its tone so ordinary, they could have been at a crime scene and he’s pointing out something that he had seen and she had missed. For a fleeting moment, anger coils within her and she feels an impulse to whirl around, grab him by the front of his shirt, throw a balled fist hard into his face!
But she quickly collects herself. Calm and in control - it is something she has learnt to be, always strives to be, whatever the situation. Her voice is steady when she answers, “Nothing. I see nothing, Jane. Just a white wall.”
“I see nothing too.”
She hears the smile in his voice.
“Just a white wall.” He echoes her words.
She turns slowly, sees the contented smile on his lips; his eyes remain fixed on the wall.
“No Red John smiley.”
For the first time since she entered, his eyes leave the wall and meet hers in a calm gaze.
“No more Red John, Lisbon.”
There, her anger flares again. And this time, before she can stop herself, the words are out of her mouth, “Of course,” her tone a little colder than normal, almost accusatory, “You killed Red John.” Despite everything.
His smile widens at that (and she shivers), a child who has been given his candy and is savouring the lingering sweetness; his eyes don’t leave hers. “I did. I watched his blood spill and pool, heard his shuddering sobs of pain all the way to his dying breaths...” Abruptly, his smile drops, his eyes lower, his voice becomes a dark pained whisper. “As he had probably done with my love and my baby...” The last words are so faint, she can barely hear them.
She remembers a time so long ago when he explained to her his plans for Red John. Pushing and testing the boundaries of their relationship before he could decide to trust her, perhaps. Or maybe, he was simply hoping for her to stop him. She couldn’t tell exactly what he was thinking then, still can’t now. But being so explicitly informed that he will be hurtling himself towards arrest or death, she had tried to make him understand that killing Red John in cold blood was not the only option - had hoped that she had made some progress with that, or that she could at least be there to stop him if it ever came down to it. Yet, ultimately, she had failed. He had succeeded - the end had gone according to his “plan” like well-oiled machinery. And she, as though a mere pedestrian on the sidewalk watching a chain accident pile up, had been sickeningly helpless and completely unable to stop it all.
“Did it really make you feel better?”
His eyes lift to hers. She sees no mirth in his clear blue eyes, only a blank emotionless honesty.
“It feels like how I had come to expect it would feel,” he says softly.
Neither speaks as her mind registers his words. He has seen enough cases of murders fuelled by vengeance to know that ‘revenge is sweet’ is but a pretty lie.
“Your defense has pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity,” she tells him. We will likely succeed given his past psychiatric record. Dr Miller’s testimony has been beneficial for us. The voice of Mashburn's attorney sounds clear in her head. “You will probably not receive the death sentence.”
He tilts his head, gaze falling away, as he shrugs one shoulder, “It doesn’t really matter.”
“It does.”
He doesn’t respond.
She stares at his profile for a long moment before she retreats, telling him that she will come back.
Because seeing the void left by the loss of life’s remaining purpose in this man, who has sauntered into their lives - his smiles, arrogance, charm and brilliance hiding grief, regret, anger and pain - and touched them all, is unbearably heartbreaking. And she simply cannot, at this point, allow for him to see her cry.
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Date written: 18 October 2009
Edited on 28/12/2010: Revisited this before posting to a comm. It's vague enough that canon hasn't ran a truck over it, yet. But I couldn't help making some brief (probably unnoticeable XD) edits.