A/N: Okay, this is my first ever attempt at Mentalist fic. Unfortunately, I don't own the The Mentalist or Patrick Jane, but I sure as hell wish I did. The italicised line at the end is from 4x12, My Bloody Valentine, and I had this set pre-The Crimson Hat in my head when writing. This was also kind of influenced by two songs in particular that have always made me think of Patrick and Red John, one of which I nicked the title for this and the lyrics that stick out to me are at the beginning.
Any kind of feedback on this would be greatly appreciated, as I'm still fairly new to the fandom and I'm not quite sure whether I've written Patrick right here.
My inarticulate store bought hangover happy kit,
It talks, it says,
"You, oh, you are so cool.
Scissor shaped across the bed,
You are red, violent red."
You hollow out my hungry eyes,
You hollow out my hungry eyes.
Sometimes, it all gets too much for him. Without so much of another word to the rest of the team, he gets out. They've all become so accustomed to it that all he gets is the odd look of concern aimed his direction every so often. Up the stairs and into the attic, he feels like he can finally breathe easy for a while. He can feel his mind buzzing but nothing seems to make sense. Just those two words that are constantly streaming through his mind are the ones that will always stick out.
Red John.
Red John.
Red John.
Theories leak out of his head and onto the pages of his little black notebook, keeping him awake all night. Not even the incredible view of the city lit up at night is enough to distract him. Most of the time, it serves as an annoyance. A reminder of how he should be out there with his wife, taking her out for dinner or seeing a movie. Charlotte should be in high school by now and he's supposed to be protecting her from boys, not so subtly interrogating and examining them to make sure they're good enough for his little girl. But he'd been stupid enough to screw it all up, getting his beautiful wife and his own flesh and blood killed. Angela had pleaded with him to give up being a "psychic", settle down in a decent job. It had all gone to his head, making him swear to himself to never let that happen again.
The two people that kept his life worth living and they're both gone. Lives extinguished with a simple cut to the throat and toenails painted with their own blood, taunting him forever. And boy, has he learnt his lesson. He never takes anything for granted anymore, a mere shadow of the man he used to be and keeping up the cocky, confident facade that he puts on so well is fooling everyone but himself. It's become so exhausting for him now that it comes up and stabs him in the dark when he's least expecting it. The walls he built up so high to protect himself and only lets them come crumbling down when he's completely alone leave him screaming out, punching the walls until he's finally collapsed in a heap on the floor. It takes him a good few hours to compose himself again, to collect his thoughts together and focus.
To get himself out of the mindset that he can't carry on with this anymore is becoming more and more difficult with each passing day, the only thing that he can do to occupy himself being to work. Cases can frustrate him no end, itching to find some way to solve the puzzle of motives and if that doesn't work, he's always got the rest of the team to mess around with, placing bets and playing mind games that everyone thinks he does to keep the boredom at bay.
"Jane, I'm sorry to ask this, but.. Do you ever talk to your wife?"
He made a promise to himself that he wouldn't let himself move on until he'd found Red John and made him pay for what he'd done.