Down With The Sickness

A/N: Okay, so I wanted to work my Red John theory into a fic (I know said theory has holes, but don't all the RJ theories?) and I have to say, this is probably the darkest thing I've ever written. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist!

"Jane!" Lisbon banged on the door to Jane's hideout within the CBI. "Hey, come on, we've got a case! Dead body over at the county courthouse, missing its arms." She paused, hoping that Jane would take the bait that she had dropped. She counted to ten in her head, but there was still no response from the CBI consultant. "Damn it, Jane." She slid her key into the padlock, turning the key and opening the door for herself. Jane essentially lived up in the attic with the Red John files and his laptop, so she tried to give him some privacy, but when he was blatantly ignoring her like this, she was forced to let herself in.

She slid back the door, and she saw Jane's back. He was just standing in the middle of the room, blue eyes staring into the dusty mirror on the wall. He was almost stock still, arms hanging limply at his sides. His three piece suit was rumpled, and his blond locks were a bit of a mess. He looked as though he hadn't slept since the last time she had seen him, three days prior. She took a few steps closer, peering over his shoulder. When he saw her in the reflection of the mirror, a slow smile formed on his face. It wasn't his usual feline grin, there was something... off about it.

"Jane?" she said his name tentatively, tilting her head slightly. He just continued smiling at the mirror, smiling at her. Her frustration that she had felt when she had been trying to get him to open the door had dissipated, replaced by worry for the unsettling state that Jane was currently in. "You okay?" she asked, taking another step towards him.

"Teresa," he whispered, grin spreading wider. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Surprise?" she repeated, arching an eyebrow at him. "I work here. So do you, by the way, in case you've forgotten." Jane didn't seem to pay any heed to her as he reached a hand up and touched the side of his face. He let out a slight laugh. "What is up with you? You're acting stranger than usual."

Finally, Jane turned to her, and she felt her heart skip a beat at what she saw now that he was facing her. First and foremost, there was a knife tucked into his belt. A knife, where the hell would Jane get a knife? Normally, Jane with a weapon wouldn't cause her undue concern - Jane was an irresponsible child on his best of days, but he certainly could handle a Bowie knife without causing himself or others harm. However, today, it put her on high alert.

As she looked up from the knife to his eyes, though, she found something much more pressing to worry about. Nearly everyday for years, she had looked into Jane's eyes, memorized them, every nuance and show of emotion etched within her mind. She had never once seen his eyes look like this. They were cold. Cold as ice, and calculating. She saw no spark, no warmth, no life - he could've been a corpse, if he hadn't been standing there in front of her, grinning that disturbing grin.

"I'm afraid you've caught me at a bad time."

She was backing up now, and she felt a small thrill of fear. Being afraid of Jane... that concept alone seemed completely ridiculous. Jane would never hurt her, he'd never lay a hand on her. What about a blade? a voice echoed in the back of her mind. "Why do you have a knife?"

Jane let out another laugh before removing the knife from his belt, twirling it deftly between his fingers. "The knife? Oh, it's just a... treasured possession of mine. I take it out on special occasions. Like today." He stopped twirling it, holding it out in front of him, eyes glued to the tip as his grin faded to a ghost of his usual mischievous smirk. When his gaze moved past the knife and onto her, he looked amused. "It's lovely to finally meet you, you know. I've waited a long time for this."

"Meet me?" she backed up as Jane began striding towards her, knife still in front of him. For every step he took towards her, she took one back, until her back was up against the wall. Jane was standing about one foot away from her, now. "Jane, talk to me. Tell me what's happening."

He chuckled breathily, shaking his head as his gaze dropped to the ground. "You don't know. How precious."

"What don't I know!?" she burst out. "What's happening to you?" She saw his grip tighten on the knife, and her hand went to the butt of her SIG, tucked into its holster at her side. However, Jane was too fast for her, and he moved with inhuman speed, pressing her against the wall with his body. He twisted her wrist with his free hand in a way that forced her to drop her weapon to the ground with a clatter. A second later, his knife was at her chin.

"Ah-ah-ah, haven't you heard what they say about bringing a gun to a knife fight?" he asked, voice light, almost patronizing.

She sucked in a harsh gasp, fear and shock overwhelming her. She shuddered at the feel of Jane's hot breath on her face. She didn't believe that before this moment, she had ever known what terror truly was. She'd been shot, stabbed, and nearly killed more times than she cared to count, but she had never felt like this. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, her vision was fuzzy, and she felt as though she was a deer staring into the hungry eyes of a lion.

"Jane," she choked out. Half of her was sure she wasn't even talking to Jane, not her Jane, anyway. She didn't see a hint of her Jane on the face of the man in front of her. "Jane, stop this."

"I'm afraid your pleas are falling on deaf ears," Jane said, leaning closer, until his cheek was pressed against hers, and his lips were almost brushing her ear. "Hello, Teresa," he greeted her, his voice as smooth as silk, deceptively gentle. "Allow me to formally introduce myself... I have many names, but you may call me Red John."

Everything inside of her froze at once. If she hadn't known any better, she would've said that time had completely stopped. "No," was all she managed to whisper. "No, no, no," she repeated like a chant, as though if she said it enough, reality would obey her. Jane - Red John? - leaned back before grinning at her like a mad man, as if she was positively hilarious.

He can't be Red John, he can't be... I would know, I've known him for years, he's my best friend, I would've known! This can't be real!

"You're hoping this isn't real," he said, tracing the curve of her lips with the knife, and she winced as it drew blood. He used his free hand to cup the side of her face. His hands were as cold as ice. His fingernails dug in slightly. "He loves you, you know. More than anything. That's what will make this all the more satisfying." He closed the few inches of distance between her face and his, licking the blood off of her lips. She flinched in revulsion. His mouth was freezing as well. The only heat coming from him was his moist breath. "Sweet, as I suspected," he observed, before moving the knife down to her throat.

She tried to struggle against him, and normally, if it was her Jane, she would've been able to overpower him without too much issue, in spite of his height and weight advantage. But this, very clearly, wasn't Jane.

This was Red John.

When she attempted to resist, he shoved her back hard into the wall, his fingernails digging into her cheek much harder, and she felt them pierce her flesh, felt blood dribbling down her cheek, and his mouth was back at her ear. "You've got spirit. It's no wonder why he finds you so intriguing. However, I'm afraid that your efforts are worthless. You can't win against me. You never have before, and you won't now."

"Patrick, if you're in there, please, don't do this," she murmurs, hoping that if anything was left of her Jane, he could still hear her. She moved her hand slowly, placing it over his heart. Red John didn't stop her. "Patrick."

He pulled back from her ear, and his face transformed, for a moment, to confusion. He felt the pressure on her body diminish slightly, the knife was removed from her throat so that it hovered between them. "You..." he trailed off, brow furrowing slightly. "You never call me Patrick."

"Patrick," she breathed, half with relief, half with more panic that she might lose him again. She put her hands on either side of his face, holding on for dear life. "Patrick, look at me, just keep looking at me." She could see some of him starting to come back into the pale blue eyes. His mouth hung open slightly, before his eyes darted down to the knife.

"What...?"

"Just stay with me, Patrick!" she urged him, a spark of hope igniting in her chest. Jane's face contorted in agony, and his eyelids pinched shut. He let out a groan.

"Lisbon... I can't..."

"Patrick!" she nearly screamed his name. "Don't!"

"I'm sorry..." When he opened his eyes again, she knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was with Red John again. She released his face.

"Patrick's gone," he growled as he grabbed her hip and used it to drag her forward. He then forced the knife up to her throat again, pressing hard enough to cut her skin. "He's right to apologize to you, though, after all... he let me out of my cage, and now he doesn't know how to put me back in." He smirked at her. "I'll have to make sure to leave him a present for when he does, I suppose. Goodbye, Teresa."

Without a moment of hesitation, he drew the knife across her throat, and she collapsed to the floor, blood pooling around her.

Lisbon awoke with a jolt and a gasp, sheets sodden with sweat and twisted up with her legs. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she managed to identify a collection of tears on her lashes, separate from the sheen of sweat that covered her entire body. She pulled herself into a sitting position, shuddering before she allowed her head to drop into her hands. It's just a nightmare, it's just a nightmare, it's just a nightmare, she struggled to assure himself.

She grabbed her phone from where it rested on her night stand, and she checked the time. It was three in the morning. Too late for a normal phone call, but the person she needed to speak too most would likely still be awake. She dialed Jane's number. It rang twice before he answered with a yawn on the other end. "What are you doing up at this hour?" he asked, and she sagged back against her pillows in relief. She didn't know what she had expected, but just hearing his voice provided her with an unexpected calm. "Lisbon?" Jane called her name when she didn't respond.

"Uh, sorry," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. "I... I had a weird dream. A bad one. I freaked out a little, I had the phone in my hand before I really knew what was going on," she lied.

"I'm sure," he responded, seeing straight through her as usual. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Are you asking out of concern or curiousity?"

"A mixture of the two."

"It was..." she trailed off, not sure of what to say. "It was stupid. I dreamed that you were Red John. Ridiculous, right?"

There was an unusually long pause on the other end. "Yes. Completely ridiculous." There's something about the tone of his voice that bugs her, but she wrote it off as fatigue catching up with her brain.

"Alright, well, I'm going back to bed. I can rest peacefully now that I know that you're not a serial killer."

For a moment, all she heard was Jane's breathing on the other end. Then, he spoke. "Goodnight, Teresa," he said softly, before there was a click on the other end. She looked down at her phone for a long moment before placing it back on her night stand and laying her head back down, trying to will herself to go back to sleep.

Jane stared down at his cell phone, a feeling of unease settling in his stomach. He couldn't help but think that he should have told her about the blackouts.