Chapter One

'The day the mirror shattered'

There are a few things that Teresa Lisbon will never forget.

The moment that she realised what it was her father had become, when the blinders were removed from her eyes and he changed from a loving man into an abusive drunkard. The day that she graduated from the academy, standing on a stage and staring out at a crowd of faces, the subtle hint of freshly cut grass and pride in the air around her. She remembers vividly the moment when she finally understood her team, how much they meant to her and how irrevocably they had become a part of her life. Then the day that she first met Patrick Jane and her whole life changed. He'd worn what was now considered his usual garb, his eyes sparkling with unexpressed mirth and his dazzling polite smile as he shook her hand. Then he'd opened his mouth and she'd just known that he was going to be a source of constant irritation for as long as she knew him.

And now…This.

This godforsaken barn in the middle of nowhere. Peeling garish red paint and cracked white lines on aging wood. The rusty stench of machinery that had once served a purpose, now left to decay. The way the dust clung to her skin, to her clothing, in a way she wasn't sure that she'd ever manage to get rid of it all.

She will never forget, though she will wish to, the sight of the blood. The sheer vivid redness of it. Hardly being the first time she's seen blood it shouldn't be memorable. But this was different. This…this was worse.

Because it was the blood of a man who had taken everything from Patrick Jane. In the end…Patrick had taken his vengeance.

She watched, dumbfounded, as Red John's head rocked back, the back of his skull exploding outwards like some cheap piñata. The shot echoing like a physical punch in the empty caverns of the barn. But it wasn't candy that came tumbling from him. It was bits of blood and brain and flesh. Slowly, like something out of a play, the body relaxed. The head, or at least what was left of it, rested back in a very unnatural angle.

The sight was a gruesome one, yet not entirely unique in its gore. It was not what held her frozen.

It was the look on Jane's face.

She had expected relief. She had expected some kind of exultant joy in finally killing the man who had destroyed his life. What she had not expected was the horror. As if realising that in killing this man he had forever put himself across the lines of forgiveness. The one thing that he should never have done, never really wanted to do. She had known he intended to kill this man. But part of her had always hoped that they could take him down together. That Jane would have the satisfaction of watching this monster rot behind bars.

But they hadn't.

He'd chosen.

And he hadn't chosen her.

Spots danced in front of her eyes, reminding her that she needed to breath, and she let the shocked breath escape, "Jane."

His head snapped up, eyes finally focusing on her. His expression was broken and sorrowful. Not at his actions, she sensed, but that she had witnessed it. His hair curled about his face, a faint spattering of blood upon the pale flesh.

Blowback was a bitch.

"Lisbon." His voice is slightly hoarse, and just that little bit lost.

She wants to scream at him. Wants to shout and stamp her feet like a child protesting the unfairness of it all. She wants to knock some sense into him, let her knuckles scrape across flesh and let out the anger she feels escape. But it's as if she's swallowed ice. She can't move, the rush of in-drawn air to her sensitised lungs feels arctic in her throat and she can't seem to draw enough to properly breathe.

Patrick Jane.

Murderer.

The uniformed officers brush past her to arrest him. The part of her that values the law above all else is thankful for that. Another part of her thought it was strange. That it should be her that does it. It's always been her that cleans up his messes.

"Wait." She doesn't know how she manages to speak, only that the tone carries her forward when her mind doesn't know what to do. They obey though, standing aside and letting her move closer. It has to be her. It was always going to be her, and the bastard knew it.

She walks over to him, the feeling of distance far more vast than it actually is, watching in a kind of daze as he drops the gun and moves away from it. He's surrendering. Damn him.

She wants to hit him. But she doesn't.

She wants to let him go and pretend for a brief moment that this never happened.

But instead she snaps the stainless steel around his wrists, words dropping from her lips without conscious interaction from her brain. That tired old litany said to every criminal they apprehend. It wasn't really her saying it though, was it? It was just habit. Brought on by the sound of handcuffs. She's wounded inside, her mind still reeling.

He doesn't fight her. Doesn't speak at all.

She doesn't know what she'd do if he did.

Authors note: Hey guys :D

SOO originally i was going to post a Christmas themed fic that i'm working on, but it's still not quite right and this damn plot bunny would not leave me alone.

So instead there's this! and it's not finished yet ;)

I hope you'll enjoy this work of mine, and please let me know what you think in that pretty review box down below ;)

Ta ta for now,

~MadamRed