Author's Note: Set at the ending of There Will Be Blood. Jane contemplates his actions. Without further ado, hope you enjoy!
"He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath."
― William Shakespeare, King Lear
The rivulets of blood trickled down the wall, slowly marring it crimson. Like a crown above Lorelei's lifeless body, Red John's greeting card smiled down at Patrick Jane.
For a second, he couldn't breathe.
That was all he knew.
He couldn't breathe.
You had it coming, he thought. I'm sorry.
Or was he? Halfheartedly, the apology escaped past his lips, echoing—faint and somber—across the crime scene: A confession without witnesses. From where she stood behind him, Lisbon never heard his whisper. What she was privy to, though, was his callous remark as he went past her: "She had it coming."
He sounded like he felt.
Heartless.
Nothing pounded inside his chest. Nothing.
Sometimes—when the thoughts ran endlessly around his tired mind, chasing demons and angels—, he wondered what Lisbon thought of him. What kept her a constant in his life, in spite of everything he did, day after day?
No answer ever came.
He knew, judging by the collection of expressions she gifted him as of late, that she was reconsidering placing her trust on him. The pain was palpable in her green, green eyes, veiled behind her steadfast, unwavering strength. Why she loved him—so ardently, with such loyalty—escaped her, Jane knew.
It escaped him, too.
Paper-frogs and red-delicious apples and magic-tricks; all the things he did, to paint a fleeting smile across her lips, were too little, too late a repayment. Lisbon deserved better than him, the golden-haired disaster that ruined her life and stole her affection. She deserved better, much better and…
Lorelei did, too.
She deserved better than Red John and the path she paved for herself—better than dying at the hands of a faceless, nameless serial killer.
Jane walked, past Lisbon and her unvoiced queries, away from the crime scene and his lover's mutilated body. His steps were clumsy, miscalculated, so unlike him it felt like his mask slipping, like having a breakdown all over again.
Too little, too late...
Too little, too late...
This time, he was the greater fool.
He had it coming, too.