Disclaimer: All I own is my own imagination.
1,825
The freshly fallen leaves in varying shades of autumn crunched under Patrick Jane's shoes, destroying their delicate structure, as he stumbled through the forest leaving a path of destruction behind him.
The trail of bodies, fragile leaves he had crushed so carelessly, followed him as he walked down the path that was his miserable life.
It had been six years ago to the day that his two only reasons for living had been ripped away from him so cruelly. He had thought the extent of his sin had ended there. But apparently fate didn't think that the precious lives of two innocent girls were a high enough price to pay for his arrogance.
His stupidity had also claimed the lives of young Emma Plaskett, Sam Bosco, four other CBI agents, Jared Renfrew and the girl he was murdered with not to mention the unbearable pain he had inflicted on their families.
He was a plague to the world – he should be quarantined. He would gladly take himself from this world and save the lives of the people he was bound to ruin if he remained however he had one more thing to do first – kill Red John. Every day of the six years that had passed, the promise he made as he held the broken shells of his poor girls had still not been fulfilled.
One thousand, eight hundred and twenty five mornings waking with his arms empty of the love of his life.
One thousand, eight hundred and twenty five nights his baby's nightlight remained unlit.
One thousand, eight hundred and twenty five days of freedom and life Red John was blessed.
Letting the tears flow freely now, he leaned against an oak tree, unable to continue the journey that had cost him and countless others so much.
Through the blurriness of his uncontrollable tears, a shimmer glinting brightly in the sunshine peeping through the trees caught his eye. The yellow light danced, the dim glowing rays bouncing off of the golden band around the finger on his left hand. His wedding ring. The sight of the simple object brought back a tsunami of memories of the day he had first worn it: the happiest day of his life that led to happier ones. His heart cried in sorrow, threatening to rip out of his chest.
Wanting the carousal of memories flashing through his head to stop, he grasped his wedding ring with two other fingers and pulled it off from his hand. Still half blinded by tears, he threw the ring across the forest. The shimmering streak flew, gliding gracefully across the tops of the trees, the bright and lovely gold contrasting against the dark and gloomy green.
He wiped the tears from his eyes and stared down at his hands. Without his wedding ring there, his hands seemed naked, incomplete, unrecognisable – like he was staring at hands that did not belong to him. Another part taken away forever.
Realizing too late, as always, the consequence of his actions, he ran from the oak tree and chased after the golden band.
Racing to the patch of forest floor where it landed, he dropped to his knees and hysterically sifted through the orange leaves carpeting the ground until he felt the relief wash through him as he spotted the shining gold ring. He grabbed it quickly and slipped it back on to his finger, closing his eyes to indulge the sweet joy of getting something precious back that was lost, reveling in the feeling like a junkie getting a fix after a prolonged period of time.
He inclined his hand to his face and pressed his lips to the ring or more so to the memory of the person who had put it there.
The sun was already beginning to sink into the sky, disappearing behind the trees, casting that special kind of warm light you only get right before sunset.
'Jane?' a series of voices called across the forest, curious to where he disappeared to.
The team. His team.
Lisbon, his best friend, his green leaf in the mess of red who kept him grounded and focused on his goal. Even if she didn't approve of it, any incentive to keep him continuing with life was okay with her. He was forever grateful to her for that.
The redheaded, kind hearted and adorably naïve Van Pelt. Before he met Van Pelt, he hated the colour red. But how could he when it represented a woman so kind, warm and full of life? The kind of woman he had wished his daughter would have had the chance to grow into.
Rigsby, of course, to whom fate had dealt a difficult hand to with a violent father (and an unfortunate lack of seduction technique) had rebelled against the world and come out a better man with a life that was rich in potential and the possibility to share it with another.
And then there was Cho. Patrick was lucky to have Cho on the team. The others valued the law above all else while Cho believed justice had a higher place. He was the one who understood doing whatever it takes. This was a comfort as Patrick knew that if he were to die with Red John, at least one person on the team would know that justice had been served.
Wiping the evidence of sorrow from his eyes as the light of the one thousand, eight hundred and twenty fifth evening died, he stood up and turned in the direction of the crime scene and to the four people he sincerely hoped wouldn't become a crushed leaf under his shoe.
There's work to be done.