Snow-white
Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.
*A/N* First of all, I've only just started to watch this show so I really hope it's all more or less in character. And yes, I've seen the latest scene already… Watching episodes in the right order? What is this sorcery you speak of? Anyway, I watch Doctor Who, I'm one hundred per cent spoiler-proof.
That scene was too good to miss for a fanfic-maniac like me.
Also, awfully sorry for the very uncharacteristic language. My mother tongue's German and I pride myself on a halfway convincing English word choice, but I figured if I tried to write in American, it would turn out pretty forced and altogether rather ridiculous, so I decided to ignore their nationality completely. Plus, I mostly watch Mentalist in German. So, again, sorry. Hope it won't bother you too much.
His phone ringed and he jerked it out of his pocket with some desperation. "Lisbon, finally."
"Sorry, Patrick," drawled the voice at the other end that was one hundred per cent not Lisbon's. "Teresa can't come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?"
Dread poured into his veins even before he truly grasped the words. Teresa can't come to the phone… he's got her phone… Teresa…
"No? Well, I'll tell her you called."
He's got Teresa.
"Wait," he stammered, but the line was dead.
Teresa.
A little wail reached his ears and it took him ages to realize he was making the sound.
Then he broke into a run. "Rigsby! Cho! Van Pelt!"
"What is it, Jane?" mumbled Rigsby. How could they all be so relaxed and tired and how did they stand to not do anything when Lisbon was gone and in danger and - he dared not calculate the probability - maybe dead?
The words fell from his lips, not necessarily in order, but obviously understandable enough to conjure a look of shock on their faces, if only a very poor echo of the oddly white-washed horror he was feeling.
The next minutes were a blur of calls in strained voices, yells that might or might not have been his, running and images of a bloody face mocking his grief, blonde curls soaked with blood, impressions of another woman lying in a pool of blood. Those were definitely his, he concluded. They couldn't be coming from the others.
He sat in the back of one of the black cars, staring blindly out of the window, Van Pelt next to him put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off. The motor was humming too loud in his ears and the car shook strangely.
Oh no, right, he was shaking. The car was fine.
The house looked like it had fallen out of an overly-obvious horror movie. He was out of the car before anyone could stop him. While a part of his mind was still progressing the hissed "Jane, let someone with a gun go first!", he was already on the veranda with absolutely no memory of crossing the lawn.
The front door had not been closed properly. He stumbled inside and found himself in total darkness. Somebody gave him a torch, not before he hit his knee hard on a chair, and he hurried after the others.
"Clear," called Rigsby to his left.
"Empty," came it from behind him.
"Clear," Jane muttered after a glance into the kitchen.
Two doors left. Rigsby took the left one, Cho went upstairs and Jane approached the room on the right, suddenly knowing she'd be there. He opened the old door, or rather crashed into it. And there she was, the first thing he saw.
Just like it was Red John's style.
The scene in front of his eyes was all different, and yet it was so terribly familiar.
"No," he groaned and that ridiculous little word took all the air left in his lungs.
Her face was stark white in the cold light of the torch and her hair and eyelashes stood out jet black against it.
"No. Teresa…" He staggered a few steps forward. His head was swimming.
The blood smeared over her beautiful features, it was so red, so screamingly red…
Jane dropped on his knees next to her outstretched body.
He choked, wanted to cry but his eyes were just stinging, he felt awfully sick. Icy fingers gripped his insides and almost blasted his ribs.
White as snow, black as ebony, red as blood. She was so beautiful...
His fingers crawled to her hand and grabbed it and he was feeling so cold so cold.
She was looking so young, he thought. Much too young to die.
Somewhere beneath the numbness and the horror and the cold and the nausea and the pain something else bubbled to the surface.
The hate tasted like ash. How could anyone do this? How could anyone dare to touch something so pure, stain something so beautiful? How could someone so iridescent just be blown out like a candle?
How was this fair?
It was only when he ran a hand tenderly over her face in a hopeless attempt to wipe away the blood that he noticed something was wrong.
The cut in her throat was missing, her wrists too seemed unharmed, and a quick glance over her fragile body proved she was at least not obviously harmed. No bruises around her neck.
His heart throbbed in his ears so he covered her lips with his hand and there it was.
Very, very faint, but she was breathing.
"Teresa," he whispered incredulously and felt for a pulse. It was too slow for his taste, but who cared if it meant her heart was still beating?
"Jane? You okay?" Someone came in and the light of their torch found him, crouched next to Lisbon, grabbing her hand, chuckling softly while tears chased each other across his face.
"Oh God. Lisbon. Is she…?"
"She's alive," Jane muttered and managed to jerk himself out of whatever sort of hysterical fit he was having. "We need to get her into hospital."
"Right. Sure. Ambulance is on its way. Listen, you stay here with her, okay?"
Jane carefully lifted her up and cradled her in his arms.
As if he'd go anywhere.
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