Five
A/N: Just a little thought that popped into my head... and then took over. It wouldn't go away until I wrote it. Anyway, here you have it! Sorry the idea's so cheesy... Of course, there's a bit of Jisbon in here, just 'cause it's me. XD Anyway, enjoy!
Disclaimer: The Mentalist and all related characters belong to CBS.
He could feel her hands. So soft, and young... But too cold. Why were they so cold? They weren't supposed to feel that way. They were supposed to be warm. They were supposed to grip his hand as tightly as he gripped hers. What was wrong? What was going on?
Something was definitely off with Jane today, she decided. He looked distracted, not as focused on the case at hand as he usually was. Something about the way he wandered, instead of his usually purposeful stride, was off. Or maybe it was how he had come to work late, far later than he usually would have ever dreamed of doing. Whatever it was, something wasn't right.
He could smell the blood on the wall, but he didn't dare look up. Why was it there? It didn't make sense. None of it. Nothing at all.
She found herself being distracted as well. He never left the room, whereas normally he would make his way through every room in the house, eventually finding something that would help them. But today... Nothing. He didn't seem to even have the vaguest notion to leave the room. She narrowed her eyes slightly and repeated her question to the new widow.
He could taste something metallic on his tongue. Blood maybe? Or something else? Oh, who the hell cared anyway. Everything, ruined, terrible... What in the world was going on? Why wouldn't anyone answer his questions?!
His eyes were haunted in a way, she noticed as he glanced over the family pictures of the new widow and her dead husband and their daughter. His jaw clenched, and his hands tightened into fists behind his back. He quickly turned and stalked away.
He could hear something. Crying. Someone was crying. But who? Who else was in the room? Who was it? Was it him?! The one who had done this?
He didn't leave the room, she noticed. He didn't sit down either, asking the widow some strange question that only he would understand the purpose of. Instead, he crossed to the window and stared moodily out into the pouring down rain.
He could see the blood on his hands. Their blood. Where... where was it coming from? Why was there so much? So much blood... He was drowning in it... Drowning...
He was still aware of her conversation with the widow. She could tell by the way he would frown every now and then, when she asked a question he thought was stupid, or already knew the answer to. So he was focused... In a way.
Suddenly, in a flash, it all made sense. Her hands were cold because she was dead. The blood was on the wall because Red John had painted it there. The metallic taste on his tongue was from tears. The crying was coming from him. And the blood... It came from them. His wife and daughter. His beautiful, beautiful family...
Gone.
She turned to the widow and politely asked for the date. The widow frowned but answered with a simple response. Oh. That made sense. That put it all in perspective. The anniversary.
He was never going to get over it, was he?
A/N: Well that was angsty. Again, I apologize for the cheesy name, but I wanted to do something with the five senses so... Anyway, review!
Off to take over the world,
Crazy Girl