A/N: Yeah, so I thought, hey, it's been a while since I wrote a really depressing Mentalist oneshot, so I think I'll do that just now. No not really. But that's what this is. If you want the real story of my inspiration, read the next A/N. If not, feel free to skip it and go straight on to my story.
A/N2: At my work, they essentially play the same CD all the time. And about halfway through resetting the restaurant "Have You Ever" by S Club 7 comes on and everyone knows the words and we all sing and then it's stuck in everyone's head. So while this isn't a songfic, it was conceived by having "Have you ever loved and lost somebody/Wished there was a chance to say "I'm sorry"/Can't you see?/That's the way I feel about you and me/Have you ever felt your heart was breaking/Looking down the road you should be taking/I should know/'Cause I loved and lost the day I let you go" stuck in my head on repeat for quite a while.
He had killed two men now. Two evil men, for sure, and he didn't regret it. He wasn't sorry they were dead and he wasn't sorry that he had killed them. But all the same, he was a murderer twice over. He glanced over at the woman lying next to him, her dark hair fanning over the white pillow. She had killed too. He knew that. Still – those killings had been in self-defence, in the line of duty. They weren't murders.
He had thought perhaps that taking his revenge would finally lay rest to his guilt, but he was wrong. As full of self-hatred as he had ever been, he sat up slowly, careful not to wake Teresa Lisbon. He gathered his clothing from around the floor and dressed quickly. His suit was crumpled and his hair ruffled, and he did not look nearly as together as he was used to looking. But then, he didn't feel it either. Red John was dead, and he had spent the night with Lisbon, and his life was falling apart all over again.
Jane had made himself a promise not to get involved with her. No matter how much he liked or even loved her, he would not hurt her that way. After all, he'd given his heart to someone else a long time ago and that was still true. And Teresa Lisbon was a beautiful person, who had suffered enough pain in her life and deserved far better than him. So why had he done it? He couldn't give himself a good answer. Her hair fell around her shoulders as she pulled out the tie, then she passed him a cup of tea and smiled, her eyes full of pity, hope and... love, selfish weakness crippled him, and he kissed her, and she kissed him back. Years of self-control were undone in an instant. But now he had to steel himself to have that control again.
He risked one glance back at her. She looked peaceful; she looked like an angel. Then she had always looked like an angel to him, and rightly so, for she had saved him in every way possible, time and time again. In return he had promised to protect her always. She laughed but he meant it. So he stared at her a second longer, preserving the moment in his mind. In that second, he loved her so much and so desperately he thought his heart would stop from the pain of it, but then he turned away and walked out the door.
Jane never settled down again. Having grown up with the carnival, a nomadic life was hardly new to him. Across the country there were people who needed his skills, people who he could help, and so he did. Paying back, little by little, a debt that he would never feel free of. And every now and then, he would return to Sacramento. Just to check.
He was there when Grace and Rigsby got married. Outside the church, across the street, so he could watch them emerge in their glorious happiness. But all he saw was Lisbon, trying to look as though she wasn't delighted to be maid of honour. Her eyes scanned over him, then flicked back, so he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Later, he was there when she got married too. She looked happy. Really happy. He didn't want to be selfish, and hate the man standing at her side. But then, some things can't be helped.
He wasn't there for the birth of her son. But he saw the boy, on a later visit. A toddler with her dark hair and serious eyes. He knew she would be an amazing mother.
Three years after that, he was there for the divorce. He wanted to stop the man as he hurried from the courthouse, stop him and ask what the hell do you think you are doing, if you had her why would you ever give her up? But he was painfully aware of the hypocrisy.
He was on his way back to visit again when he collapsed. The next thing he knew he was in hospital, staring at some strange doctor who was speaking about something, but the words were all jumbled and he couldn't understand them at all. After having all the things he cared about either torn from him, or walking away from them, he knew he shouldn't be afraid of dying. There was a time he had relished the idea. But then it would have been a choice, and now he had no choice at all. Just time, and not much of it.
There was nothing they could do.
So they moved him to a hospice. He hated the idea, but it wasn't as though he had a home. He learned that hotel rooms aren't considered appropriate accommodation for the terminally ill. Some of his precious time slipped away. Did he have affairs to put into order? No, not really. People to call?
"If I were dying, I'd wanna call you, but you're already here, so there's no need."
"Me?" a smile, pleased to be thought of, to be top of the list, though she'd never admit it. "What would you say?"
So much. He had so much to say to her. But it would just be cruel, to call her now, just to tell her that he was going to die.
More time passed, sand through his fingers. Jane began to visualise his life as an hourglass. His senses, his memory, and his reasoning started to fail him. A blow for anyone, to Patrick Jane, who had based his entire life on the capacities of his extraordinary mind, it was the third most heartbreaking thing that had ever happened.
A few more weeks. Jane gave up on keeping his mind or body active. It was coming, he could feel it in his bones, a deathly chill began to flow with his blood, and he welcomed it again. Scared, yes, of course he was scared, but at least at last there would be an end to this. Since Angela and Charlotte died, his misery had been lifted only by Lisbon, and then by nothing at all. And end to it began to look blissful again.
And then she was there. He wondered for a second if he was wrong, if there was a heaven and God knew that to him, an angel meant Teresa Lisbon, and so He had sent one in her likeness to collect him. But he soon dismissed the thought. If there was any form of life 'on the other side', he doubted it would be an angel waiting for him. Which surely meant she was really there – he wasn't dead, and Lisbon, flesh and blood, was sitting by his bedside. Possessed of a strength he hadn't felt for weeks, he pulled himself to a sitting position and looked at her. There were more grey hairs, more wrinkles, unshed tears shining in her eyes, but it was definitely her. And next to her a small boy, with dark hair and serious green eyes, stared at him.
"You're a hard man to find," she said, and he could hear the emotion in her voice, well disguised to anyone else but transparent to him.
"Well, I knew you'd be looking," he replied.
They looked into each other's eyes, the wells of unsaid words.
"Rick, wait outside," she said softly, squeezing the child's hand.
He nodded and slipped out of the room. Jane watched him go in wonder. And somewhere, in the fog of his brain, as if neurons had been reawakened by her presence, things connected.
"Rick?" he croaked, realising it had been a long time since he last spoke. "As in...?"
Blood rushed to her cheeks, creating that familiarly adorable blush.
"Shut up," she said.
"I'm flattered."
"You should be. God knows you don't deserve it."
He couldn't argue with that. "Lisbon... Teresa... you know why I left, don't you? You know?"
His voice was urgent, he needed her to understand.
"Yeah, I know," she said softly. "Do you know what it felt like, to wake up and you were gone? How much it hurt when you weren't there the next day, or the day after? To see you outside Rigsby and Grace's wedding – I know it was you – and then for you just to disappear again? Do you know that?"
"Yes," he said, looking down. "Yes, I know."
She nodded. "Good."
And then she stood up.
"Don't go."
Lisbon looked surprised. "Of course not," she said. "Budge up."
It was such an odd command that all he could think to do was obey, shuffling over so she could climb up beside him. He placed his arm carefully over her shoulders, and she rested her head on his chest.
"I only ever wanted you to be happy," he said. "I love you, I never once stopped loving you. Forgive me?"
She laughed, a little sadly, and he felt tears soak through to his skin.
"You idiot," she said, her hand searching out his to grasp it tightly. "I forgive you. And I... I love you too."
He closed his hand around hers. She's right, he was an idiot. Maybe it was the sickness, but he was confused, he couldn't tell what was wrong and what was right, what was a mistake and what wasn't. The patchy grey past and its nuances was too much for him, so instead he focused on how right it felt to have her there now, beside him when he needed her as always.
"Don't leave me," he said, voice cracking as the fear hit him again. "I don't want to be alone."
"Oh Patrick," she said, and he could feel that she was now truly crying. "You never had to be."
So he rested his head on top of hers and closed his eyes, and his grip on her hand loosened for the last time.
[sarcasm]God, you know, I really have to get over my obsession with happy endings. *Everything* I write seems to have one. [/sarcasm]