FIC: The Next Verse (1/1)

[tromana]

Title: The Next Verse
Author: tromana
Rating: R
Characters: Jane/Lisbon, Lisbon/unspecified
Summary: I'll show you yours if you'll show me mine.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist.
Notes: Set post 3x24 Strawberries and Cream. Written for the Paint It Red ficathon. The prompt below, was supplied by ch19777 . 

The Next Verse

A good nightmare comes so rarely,
Those pretty dreams have already taken too much of your time.
A good nightmare comes so rarely,
I'll show you yours if you'll show me mine.
- Invitation to the Ball, from Dance of the Vampires

I hear of your accident, the shooting, and it sickens me.

I have to excuse myself quickly. LaRoche gives me a quizzical look, but I cannot stay in the room. I need to find a bathroom, to compose myself.

It isn't meant to be like this.

I never thought that he would put you in direct danger; I was convinced that he cared about you too much.

Clearly, I was wrong.

Then again, when tempted by the proverbial carrot, Patrick Jane is never the most predictable of people. Of course, if he thinks he can flush out the mysterious Red John, he has to go running. He's desperate for revenge, that one. To hell with the people he works with, he supposedly cares for.

When Red John's on the scene, he has only one thing on his mind.

But even I'm surprised by this turn of events. Had it been Van Pelt, Rigsby or Cho, then less so. But you? Everyone always thought you and he held some sort of special connection. You and he have fueled the rumor mills for years.

When it came down to it, I always thought he'd choose you over him, too.

If I were in his shoes, I would have.

But then again, I understand his mindset. The drive, the urge, the desperation.

The obsession.

That's something I understand all too well.

Somebody offers me a cup of water. I accept it gratefully.

As soon as I've swallowed the last drop, I crumple the polystyrene. That feels good. It's surprising how a simple act of destruction can steady the nerves. Briefly, I check my face in the mirror. A little pallid, maybe and there's bags underneath the eyes. It doesn't matter though; we're all stretched to the limit here. I can always blame exhaustion or something.

When I finally return to LaRoche's office, the mood has shifted. There's more than just sheer panic in the air. Yes, an agent is down, but I discover you're being transferred to hospital. Apparently, the injury isn't life threatening, but it's going to make you feel uncomfortable for a while. That's a blessed relief, though I'd have preferred it if you felt no pain at all.

Especially as it is the fault of that bastard, Jane.

If he hadn't sent you to protect Hightower, you'd have been fine. If he'd stuck to form and had you accompany him to the mall, you wouldn't have been shot. If he hadn't lied to Van Pelt about Bertram being Red John's mole, then she wouldn't have told O'Laughlin…

However, the mood in the office hasn't changed for the better. People seem shell-shocked, like they don't know how to react.

I hear the whispered words. Red John's dead, they say. He's been killed. Murdered in cold blood.

By Patrick Jane.

Other members of staff are questioning how this could have happened. Hadn't Rigsby and Cho left with him, just hours ago? Weren't the Serious Crimes Unit doing some kind of sting? To close one case or other?

It seems nobody else even knew it was Red John they were investigating.

I'd been looking forward to this moment for months, for years even.

Of hearing that Patrick Jane has been arrested for murder. That he is being transferred to CBI imminently for questioning. That he'll be sent to jail, to rot. Just like he deserves.

I also know that my, our, colleagues were expecting to feel jubilant in this moment too. Closing the Red John case should be a celebration for the entirety of the CBI. Instead, it's been marred because Jane has been arrested and of course, your injury.

It's common belief that people thought you, Teresa, would stop him. That you would be there when he finally corners Red John and he would choose you.

Only I know otherwise.

As I've said, I, like so many others, thought you'd be safe from whatever crazy stunt Jane pulled in order to get Red John. That's not what I mean.

Nobody here knows the full plan. They think Red John's influence has long since been extinguished from the CBI. That LaRoche successfully flushed out the double-crossing Madeline Hightower.

But they're wrong.

Even with Craig O'Laughlin now dead too, it doesn't change a thing.

For I'm still here.

And so much more is going to happen.

I should be celebrating. Jane's arrest is the result of many of years of hard work. I should be proud that I've finally managed to pull it off.

But I can't be.

Not until I know you're on the road to recovery.

xxx

The bile hits the back of your throat before you have a chance to register anything else.

I don't have to be there to see it, I can imagine. A vivid imagination can be both a blessing and a curse.

I know, of course I know.

I always do.

It helps that I've known you for so long now. I understand your mechanisms, the way you react. Sometimes, you can be ever so predictable. It's endearing, in a way. Of course, you can still catch me off guard from time to time too. I like it when you do; it adds a spark, of sorts, to our relationship. Keeps things exciting and so on.

But you never expected this.

I did, however.

You see, this has been a part of my orchestration all along.

Patrick Jane, he was an interesting diversion. A game, if you will. He was never the sole target of my plans, my desires. I get bored easily, need stimulation. If I have an endgame, a plan, I need something to distract myself from time to time. To keep things exciting and to give me a break from the task in hand. Either that, or multiple complicated plans interweaving with one another. That can be fun, as well.

Frankly, my dear, it's a miracle my fascination with you has lasted so long. It never usually does; there's just a special… something about you.

But even he cannot distract me from you forever. Or vice versa, of course.

You see, I know how you feel about him. I have done so for years.

It's obvious. The way you looked at him, the way you let him touch you where so many other men have tried and failed. It was crystal clear in your body language and the verbal sparring matches you shared.

In fact, the only person it wasn't obvious to was yourself.

Did you really think he'd be safe behind bars? Did you really think that I was gone? Dead and buried? That I would willingly walk to my death and let Mr. Jane kill me with something as mundane as a handgun?

If you did, then you're more naïve than I thought.

That's of no import though.

I know that by the time you're back at headquarters, you'll have composed yourself once more. That you'll have closed down the delicious range of emotions going through that pretty brain of yours in order to focus on the job.

After all, you could never let anybody else know just how much you loved him. And if you couldn't admit it to yourself, how could you be expected to tell anybody else?

You now have to focus on catching me, of course.

For now you know. I'm still alive. Patrick Jane failed in his fruitless quest for revenge and he died in humiliation. Your team had sent him to jail as a criminal, believing he had done your job for you. You'd let him revel in the glory of having finally succeeded in butchering me. Well, it was hardly butchering. More like a couple of dodgy shots to the chest.

The only reason my acolyte died was because Mr. Jane shot him in such a close proximity.

I stole that glory away from him and painted my calling card on the wall in his blood. You're probably staring at it right now, wondering whether or not it's a sick joke. If one of the other inmates wanted to desecrate his body in an ironic way.

But eventually, you'll realize. Everything is identical to my old way of operating. There's details there that haven't been repeated to the general public.

And there's his blood painted on his toenails. A special thought, just for you.

Even in jail, he wasn't safe from my grasp. And once he was there, he grew boring. In a way, you could almost blame yourself for his death. If you'd let him off the hook just this one time, then maybe you'd still be together. Solving cases, catching the 'bad guys'.

And I'd still be watching your every move. Listening into conversations your - our - boss has. Smirking as I realize just how far away you are from capturing me.

You're probably suspecting Director Bertram himself. He's sharp, suave. Has access to Jane.

But that would be too obvious, wouldn't it?

I'm closer than you think, Teresa. I've been watching you even closer, since Jane's arrest and your recovery.

We've worked together for years. You may not have particularly noticed me, but we've passed each other in the corridor. Exchanged pleasantries in the parking lot. Gotten coffee at the same time.

And I've handed you oh so many case files.

We're in this together, it's the long game.

And remember: I'll show you yours if you show me mine.

The ball's in your court, agent.

end