A/N: This story came to me a while ago and it's been bouncing around inside my head for ages! So here goes! :D Enjoy xx WORD O' WARNING! There may be some strong language involved. Don't say I didn't warn you! K, this chapter is a little bit of a kick starter. Just so you get the basic gist of everyone's frame of mind and what the storyline is. I apologise if it's just a lot of blabbering, but please bear with me!

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist, although I'm hoping that I'll be the proud owner of the DVD sets this Christmas! :D

A hole is where the heart was

His head was buzzing today. Full of thoughts and feelings and the urgent need to get up and do something! But there was no case. And without a case, there was no job. And with no job… let's just say that Patrick Jane was not one for idly sitting around.

It gave him too much time to think. About anything and everything, bad things and good things, past and future. His brain was constantly on 'go' from the moment he woke up in the morning. Although, truth be told he was almost always awake when it became the morning anyway, since he spent most nights watching the stars painstakingly make their way across the sky. Even the dreams he had when sleep did come to him plagued the poor man with flashbacks and dreadful emotions.

He liked the daytime. The rising sun always told of a new chapter in his, albeit tragic, story. It gave him a clean, fresh slate to write on, metaphorically speaking. Nothing could be any worse than it had been in the past, right?

Each day, he would rise and get changed into a pristine set of clothes; his usual three piece suit was always hung up, ready to be put on right off the bat. Even his comb was positioned on his dresser, the vast array of aftershave bottles lined up like soldiers on the shelf. It had been a habit that Angela had forced him into, and he never seemed able to break out of it.

Uh oh, he was thinking again. I really have got to stop this, he thought. Of course, he knew that the scars would never fade. He couldn't ever make himself forget all that's happened in the past.

Truth be told, he wouldn't want to forget it, even if he had the option. At the end of the day, his lust for revenge and the feeling of general hatred all boiled down to one thing: Self-preservation. Mad as it may seem, all he had to hold onto was Red John. And as much as he desperately wanted to let go, he was scared that if he did, he would fall apart. There wouldn't be anything left for him to live for. The thread that had been used to patch him up and hold him together over the years would snap. The seams would burst and he would have no control.

For God's sake, Patrick, you're doing it again! He finally got a grip back on reality and grumbled to himself.

An irritated sigh resonated around the room, echoing his own moans of distress. It snapped him out of his reverie. Jane reluctantly turned his head and opened his eyes groggily. Grace Van Pelt was sprawled across her desk, flame-red hair splayed across the sea of paper, a hand haphazardly dangling off the edge.

"What's wrong, Grace? Rigsby trouble?" he smirked. That old flame was so obviously still there, just waiting to be rekindled. No matter how much each of them tried to deny it, it was plain for all to see. After all, times had been bleak lately, and everyone knows that fire glows brightest of all in the darkness.

"Shut up, Jane!" she squeaked suddenly, snapping her head up so quickly, her hair erupted into the air. It settled back down again on her shoulders. She glanced in Rigsby's direction discreetly. His vacant expression indicated that he didn't hear the remark. "And no! I do not have… 'Rigsby trouble' as you so wrongly put it!" Her voice dropped into a harsh whisper.

"Wrongly? Oh, come on, Grace. Do I have to spell it out?" He closed his eyes again and settled back in the plush couch cushions underneath him.

"Spell what out? There's nothing between us." She sniffed indignantly, turning back to her computer, fingers suspended above the keyboard.

"How did you know I was gonna say that?" Bingo! He silently congratulated himself.

She flushed instantly. Dammit! "Well, I—err…" she broke off, knowing she was beat. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Jane! STOP IT!" she shouted. Several faces turned to look at her questionably. Including Rigsby's. She pinched the bridge of her nose and counted in her head to ten.

"Stop counting. That won't do anything. Believe me, I've tried it. And stop what?"

"THAT! It's not funny!" Grace's face was rapidly turning a similar shade of red as her hair. Jane looked at her, a smile gracing his features. She calmed a little when she saw it was not one of mocking, or of smugness, but one of genuine friendliness.

"You know, I think I can help you out. Come with me. He'll hear us here." She stared at him incredulously as he began to get up. His eagerness to help was strangely unnerving.

"How... What are you gonna do, Jane?" She asked, glancing over at Rigsby. As a thought struck her, she shook her head, scrunching her eyes up in disgust. "No! No, no, no, no, no! We're over, Jane. We have been for ages! We can't do it anyways! The rules say—"

"Ugh… rules." He cut in. "That's all you ever hear around these parts. Rules, rules and more rules… Don't you ever get sick of it, Grace? Wouldn't it be great to just…break free from it all, and throw caution to the wind? Think how nice that'd be. Just—"

"Jane, stop trying to hypnotize me!" she shrieked, earning her yet another round of odd looks and scowls. Jane laughed out loud.

"You Ok, Grace? Is Jane giving you trouble?" piped up Rigsby from his desk. She released a breath she didn't realise she was holding and forced a smile onto her face.

"Nah, I'm OK. He's just doing his—"

She glanced sideways over at Jane, who had picked up a book and was aimlessly attempting to balance it on his head. Oh, bloody hell, she thought and stared at him.

"—usual." Rigsby finished, and he smiled in understanding.

"Yeah." She grinned back, that old familiar spark rushing up her spine. Jane gave up and threw the book down on a vacant chair.

"Come on, Grace. I wanna show you something." He announced, firmly tugging on her arm. She was forced to oblige to his nagging, and so got to her feet and followed him to the kitchenette. Rigsby's eyes followed them suspiciously over the top of his sandwich, his detective instincts starting to kick in. Something was up, and he didn't like it.

Meanwhile…

Lisbon hummed along to the radio, a rare privilege around these parts. It was always either in use by the cleaners, or in pieces tucked away in a drawer somewhere. Today, she had been first to arrive, and so had taken the liberty of claiming it for herself.

Her pen tapped rhythmically on the paper. Music really helped to stimulate her mind, which in turn helped her to focus on the pile of paper in front of her.

Suddenly, static came through the speakers, making her jerk her head up and glare at no one in particular. Then, in a somewhat mocking manner, it faded out until there was nothing but the faint hum of electricity coming through. "Battery's dead again!"she huffed, slamming her head down on the table.

The force of it made the desk vibrate for a few milliseconds, after which she flung her arms back in the air and ran her fingers irritably through her hair. She yawned widely, tired and fed-up. The small tears filled her eyes and distorted her vision.

She squinted, allowing everything to blur and morph into something it wasn't, a change of scenery to the everyday hubbub of the CBI building. Her beige couch twisted into what could only be described as a blob, the sea of paper became just a plain, pristine screen of white and the people outside turned into unintelligible scribbles from a three year old's drawing.

Then, one of said 'scribbles' started to get up. She opened her eyes normally and a mass of blonde curls swam into vision, followed by the navy blue three-piece suit that always came after. She smiled.

She couldn't hear his voice; just see his mouth moving up and down, the only indication of him speaking. She knew him so well though, that even without the audible sound of his words, she could imagine them, as clear as day. Well, she heard them often enough! The man spoke a lot, be it intelligent conversation between him and the rest of the team, a terse nod and a few passing words of farewell, or unorthodox facts and figures he had intentionally concocted in his head.

Teresa Lisbon knew one thing for sure, however. She would never tire of hearing him. Hearing him talk to her. Even listening to him shout at her! But the most magical thing was when he laughed. His mischievous chuckle gave her a glimmer of hope that he was not beyond repair, as she so thought when they first met.

He was laughing now, head thrown back, mouth agape in a chorus of raucous laughter. A shiver ran through her. Oh man, not again…

Lately, she had taken to watching his every move, analysing his body language. The way his adorable dimples showed when he grinned, the way his body tensed when something red was in the room, even the slight tremor in his hands that occurred when he awoke, evidently the lasting effects of another nightmare.

In more recent times, she had found her mind wandering off into places that were marked 'No entry', suddenly realising where her imagination was taking her. Just once, she wanted to know what his hand felt around hers, what his embrace felt like when she really needed it most.

She wanted to be there for him. A tiny piece of her heart chipped off every time she saw him on the verge of tears. Looking cold and lonely, nothing but a small child trapped in a bad dream with no caring parents to comfort him afterwards. She knew what that felt like! But not only when he was visibly in pain did she feel that wave of nausea hit her; but also when another woman was on the scene.

Admittedly, he was indeed very good looking. And yes, his charisma was definitely alluring, and one that was her kind of cup of tea, too. But jealousy was one of the most common emotions for her to feel now. Every time some hooker started looking his way, or a girl who looked way too young for that kind of relationship put on that flirtatious mask, God forgive her, she wanted to scream and slap those petty, make up-clad faces to hell and back. But of course she couldn't because both her job and her self-pride depended on it too much.

She continued to watch the scene unravel before her. Taking in every minute detail, committing it to memory. Rigsby munching contentedly on his lunch, even though it was only half past ten, Grace's flushed rosy cheeks, and Jane's strong hands. The same ones that had caught her in a trust fall. The same ones that—Say what?

Suddenly, before she knew it, another fragment of her heart was gone, along with any other hopes she might've had of helping Patrick Jane. In just a few seconds, all her dreams had shattered, leaving her to pick up the pieces. Because right now, Jane had his arm around Grace's shoulders. He was laughing all right, but not in the way she wanted him to be. He was laughing at Grace. No, laughing with Grace it seemed. Was it just her, or was Rigsby looking a little red in the face too?

But that didn't matter now. Patrick Jane had gone. Vanished in a puff of smoke, only to be replaced with a strange, deluded copy of his former self. The Patrick she had so longed to be with... Grace had gotten the one man that Teresa Lisbon had ever paid any real attention to. Maybe it was an overreaction, maybe not. Perhaps she had gotten the wrong end of the stick entirely.

But in that moment, her world went black. Nothing was what she saw. Just a vast, never-ending hole of nothing. It took her a few moments to realise that the hole in question, was her heart. Or rather, where her heart once was.

I have so many ideas planned for the rest of this one! Please be kind and review! They make my day! ;D Much love to all xxxx