With thanks to Mossi.b, who's insightful comments on 'All systems go' inspired this piece, and to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic, for their beta reading, critique and friendship. Check out their latest stories – 'White Out' from Sue, solving crimes in the Colorado winter, and Cumberland River Relic's heartwarming romance, 'Clear Blue Morning'.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to the Mentalist and make no money from fanfiction.

Dear Diary

November 21st, 2013 (1 week post everything)

Dear Diary,

What on earth am I supposed to do with you?

If Jane was here, he'd torment me without mercy for this. Scrub that, if Jane was here, I wouldn't dare commit my thoughts to paper. He'd be rifling through them faster than a jacked Ferrari on the freeway. Then again, if he was here, I'd have someone to talk to. And I don't, so I'm doing this instead. Someone once told me, years ago – back when I worked for Bosco in SFPD – that writing things down helped you to process them. I'm not sure who. Bobby, perhaps. Maybe he was right. I'll soon find out. Got to sift through the wreckage sometime.

So, Red John. Or should I say McAllister? We got him in the end. I always thought we would, though I prayed that the price wouldn't be too high. And whatdaya know. In the ways that truly matter – the lives of my team, and particularly Jane's life and freedom – we got away with it. And for that I am truly thankful. But in every other respect, it was overwhelming. I gave the CBI eleven years of my life and far more time and commitment than I was paid for. My team did similarly. But we're all out of work now. Dumped at the roadside, with no salary and only the promise of minimal severance pay once the bureaucrats get their act together.

I knew Bertram was a jackass, but I never dreamed that he, or so many former colleagues, were corrupt to the point of cold-blooded murder. It's… unbelievable. And Abbott… Hell, I know he's only doing his job, and nobody should expect to escape suspicion, but that guy just doesn't know when to stop. Nothing I can do or say will get through to him. He even locked us all up for three days, the team that brought down Red John and busted open the Blake Association! Like it's all our fault. Sometimes I think that Jane's effrontery in standing up to him annoys him more than the root and branch corruption in Californian law enforcement. And he'll never forgive me or the rest of the team for letting Jane escape arrest and get to McAllister. Abbott seriously needs to get his priorities right. And to let up. That man is like one of those toys that you wind up and it just keeps going, straight ahead, irrespective of what's all around him.

And McAllister. I know he was on Jane's shortlist, but I really didn't think it was him. I shook hands with him, more than once, and Jane did too. And he looked us in the eye and laughed at us both. It galls me. I could almost scream. I can't imagine how Jane feels.

I finally got the last voicemail Jane left me. I've saved it. Keep playing it back. Managed to persuade Abbott to let me keep the phone and the number, even though it was from work. I know why. He'll be bugging it, hoping Jane calls again. But he won't. I know that. Jane's not stupid.

What can I tell you? He got his revenge, and, from what I've heard of the details, McAllister had time to be scared and to suffer, though not as much as the pain he inflicted on so many other people. And I'm glad the bastard is dead. That his Blake cronies can't get him off the hook. Jane deserves closure and I'm glad he got it, though there's no way that he could stand trial and get acquitted again.

Oh, Jane. I miss him. More than I ever thought possible. Even after that Vegas crap that he pulled. This time I know that it's forever. He's on the lam. I expect he's left the country by now, or bunkered up in some distant one horse town with a gold standard change of identity. He can't come back. Not now. Or even let me know how he's doing. Abbott would be on him like a terrier on a rat. Urgh. Mr F.B.I. I couldn't believe it when I first noticed his latest stupid idea. The overbearing idiot's got two plain clothes officers running surveillance on me – following me to the supermarket - for no justifiable reason apart from his wounded pride. To use a 'Janeism', it's irksome. But what does it matter? I have no job and no secrets. They're going to get very bored.

I need to get my life back together, I know. Tommy keeps calling, pestering me about getting another job and going to visit him and Annie. I've even been invited by the other two, to go back to Chicago. But I need space now. Space to just think. And to write. Definitely write. God, I hope that this is working.