A/N: Have a great Holiday for everyone who celebrates it. This one-shot is dedicated to all those missing someone special at this time year. I know I am. Hope you like it.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist or any of its characters.

Blue Christmas

He chuckles loudly, tripping over one of his bare feet as he weaves a zigzag path towards the shoreline. His brown shoes in one hand and a half-empty bottle of tequila in the other he plonks himself down on the sand with an unsteady thud, its warmth permeating through his sarong even at just past midnight. He wedges the bottle into the caked sand in front of him and sets his shoes beside it.

He closes his eyes and breathes in the salty air as he stills his movements until he's almost stationary, contained to just a slight rocking back and forth motion as the alcohol he's had swims around his system. He listens to the busy sounds of the small town behind him, laughter and singing dancing through the ocean breeze, passing over him in euphoric waves into the dark expanse of sea ahead, its waters glittering appreciatively under a moonlit sky in its own rhythmic dance back.

He sits there for seconds or perhaps it's minutes. He doesn't know which. He's not tracking the passage of time as his breathing becomes slow and shallow, lulled by the hypnotic hum around him.

After a while, he's listening to only the breakers as they hit the sand and their withdrawal back into the abyss time and again, the soft crash and whoosh back and forth, back and forth.

A schism to the rhythm draws his attention. It's not unpleasant but welcomed.

"Hey," she says at his side.

He smiles slowly, savouring the sound, that inflexion in her voice when she's amused but trying to hide it. She hasn't grown accustomed to the sarong just yet.

"Hey yourself," he says, his tone even, eyes still tightly closed and facing forward. "I was hoping you'd show up tonight," he adds.

"You made sure I would," she tells him, her tone not quite so cheerful, worry in it.

He opens his eyes and turns his head. She's wearing a long coral sundress, its colour reminding him of the cowry he picked up the day before, her freckles complementing it just like the marks on the shell.

"Interesting dress choice," he says, making no attempt to hide his languid admiring gaze.

She smiles and brings her knees up to her chest, shakes her head slightly as she looks at the water. "You put me in it," she tells him accusingly with another smile, her hair cascading down her back like a chestnut waterfall.

"I suppose I did," he replies with a smile of his own. "It was a good choice. You look beautiful, Teresa."

They both face ahead as she blushes shyly before a comfortable silence develops.

"You're drinking too much," she says then, her lips pursed into a thin line of concern as she spies the bottle at his feet.

"It's Christmas, Lisbon," he shrugs. "People always drink too much at this time of year."

"You never did any other Christmas I've known you."

"How would you know? You never saw me any other Christmas Day but this one."

She pierces him with a look so demanding he colours as he turns his head back to her. Resolutely, "No. But you know what I just said was true or I wouldn't have said it in the first place."

"Hmm," he nods with a perturbed sigh. "Can't we discuss something happier or festive tonight?"

She laughs. "Why are you asking me? You're in charge of what we choose to discuss, Jane, not me."

"Mmm. At any rate, you're being quite the annoying hallucination this evening, my dear," he states as he faces front once more.

"Sorry."

She adds a second later, "You just became annoyed and then apologised to yourself, you realise."

"Yes, I'm aware of that."

"Just checking you haven't entirely lost your marbles."

He taps an index finger to his temple. "Not quite yet."

"So, how are you?" she asks him with more seriousness a beat later. "This is your first Christmas in quite a while without him-"

"And without you," he cuts in.

He exhales then swallows thickly.

"I'm here," she says softly. "For as long as you need to talk to me."

His voice cracks as he nods. "Only you're not. You're not...you're not real. This...this isn't real."

She says nothing so he turns to look at her again, her pale skin surrounded by black night as she stares back wordlessly. "Guess I have nothing to say in response to that, huh?" he smiles, sorrow in his voice.

"You could call me," she suggests. "The real me, I mean."

"I don't even have your number anymore. I'm not even sure where you are. All I know is that you weren't prosecuted for helping me according to the papers I was able to find and what I could locate on the internet. But I don't know if you're still in Sacramento or-"

"You could get that information from Van Pelt. She could probably put in some kind of techie workaround where the FBI wouldn't even find out about you calling me. Or me calling you back after that."

"FBI are probably still monitoring her phone. I've only been gone six months."

"So she reports you calling her straight after so she doesn't get in trouble with the Feds. Or you email her and she covers it up after the fact. And even if they find out what can they do? They can't extradite you from here. And if you don't want them to find you at all then you could move around a little or to another island but so what? What's so special about here? You can find a nice beach anywhere. You could talk to me every day if you really wanted to, Jane. And there are ways we can see each other now too, technology being what it is nowadays." She grins. "Someone would probably need to help you set that up from your end. You have someone?"

He nods enthusiastically. "Franklin at the hotel here. He's a smart kid. Trustworthy too."

She beams back a victorious grin at him. "There you go, then."

There are hope and desperation in her voice and for a few seconds he almost capitulates, caught up with the makings of a good plan, the thought of her in his life again making his pulse skyrocket. He feels absolute joy and he tucks it inside him so tight he thinks his heart might burst.

Then his smile falters. She shakes her head in response. "Don't," she pleads. "Don't change your mind. We could make it work. It wouldn't be the same as seeing you in person every day but it would be something. Something better than now."

He sniffs loudly through a laugh. "I daresay we could. But...but I can't. I can't do that to you, Lisbon."

"Why not? You think I wouldn't be responsive? You think I'm mad at you for leaving how you did? Mad at you for...for what you did before you left?"

He shrugs as he stares at his illusion. "I have no idea. I'm not sure about anything presently. And for once in my life I can't read you."

"You know I'm worried sick about you, though, don't you? That I think of you every single day."

He nods, looks down to the sand between them, her fingers just out of reach of his own.

"So why not call me, allay my fears?" she whispers.

"I've taken up too much of your life already. I-I owe you a fresh start after everything you did for me."

"Maybe I don't want a fresh start. Maybe I just want to have you in my life again, you idiot."

"You need to move on," he states loudly. "I-I hope to hell you have."

Determined, "No, you don't. And you know I haven't."

He locks eyes with her and they circle her face. A tear escapes. "I never meant for that to happen," he says quietly. "I never meant for...-"

"What? Feelings to occur? You think I'd be immune from them? You think you are? You tried to lock them down for years and you almost had yourself convinced some of the time. Almost. But you know for certain now. You know you love me, Jane. Every day you're convinced of that more and more the longer we're apart. Are you afraid I don't feel the same-?"

He sighs. "I just want you to be happy. And-and I'm not someone who can make you happy, Lisbon. If we got in contact again then...then I'd scupper that for you. You'd be holding out for someone who can't give you what you deserve whether I love you or not. Christ, even if I was there in person I'm still not that man. Never mind as some kind of...virtual companion."

She laughs. "Hell, compared to some of the boyfriends I've had a virtual one might actually work better for me. And you wouldn't have to scupper anything. We could just be friends, just like before if you can't commit to a romantic relationship-"

Softly, "You'd want more than that in time. And now...now...I don't have a valid excuse why not."

She looks down. "You don't know that. I'd be happy just with your friendship."

Gently, "Not for long."

She raises her head and tears shine in her eyes like stars as they reflect off the ocean. "But friendship would be enough for you?"

His sadness deepens with every word. "It's all I have left to give. I-I'm not capable of more than that. Even for you."

"I'm not so sure about that," she remarks with a sad but knowing smile. "Therefore you're not so sure about that."

He smiles back at her. "Well, whichever one of us it is I think we're deluding ourselves if we believe that could be our future. I blame the tequila, personally."

"No, I blame the fear you have of losing someone again so not allowing yourself to truly experience life. And the guilt you feel-"

He turns his features to stone. "I don't want to discuss this anymore."

"So quit thinking about it."

He sighs and closes his eyes again. "I can't," he says quietly, opening them and wiping a stray tear. "Not...not today. It's not that it's Christmas. I've hated Christmas since..."

"Charlotte died," she supplies in a whisper.

He nods as he inhales a deep breath and releases it. "It's just...it's just seeing people up there in the town this evening. Families. Celebrating, fighting. The usual Christmas bust-ups and rough and tumble." He laughs. "Back at the CBI there was always something happening to distract me from all of that. Or I could distract myself with...with thinking about him if there wasn't."

"You miss the murders," she jokes.

"I miss you," he responds immediately. "God, Lisbon, I miss you so much."

Suddenly tears are rolling down his cheeks and he places his head in his hands. He cries as he brings his knees up to his chest, mirrors her pose as she sits next to him. He continues, his muted wails echoing in the air. A gust of wind brushes against his hair. He imagines it's her instead, her fingers in his curls, a caress against his scalp.

He finishes with a heaving breath a minute or two later. Her voice is like silk to his ears. "That's the first time you've cried since you killed McAllister."

He nods and takes another heavy breath, wipes his eyes dry with the palms of his hands. His wedding band glints as the moon catches it. He turns it on his finger. Once. Twice. "And that's the first time I've given him his actual name." He scratches his forehead. "I don't know even know why I haven't until now."

"Because it was a person you killed, not some kind of mythical creature you hunted."

"He was still a monster."

"He was. And now he's gone."

"Is he?" he whispers. "Am I ever going to be free of him?"

"When you allow yourself to be. Maybe. Maybe you're just not there yet. It'll take time."

"And maybe I'll never be there. Maybe there will never be enough time."

"And maybe there will."

He laughs suddenly. "And here I am, arguing with myself again."

She joins in the laughter. It dies down. "Did it help? Crying? Letting out some emotion?"

"I'm feeling a little thirsty after it, somewhat dehydrated," he says with an offhand smile.

"So you don't want to think about that right now, then," she responds.

"No." He adds in a whisper, "But I meant what I said before that. I feel lost without you."

"I know. And I miss you too."

He lifts up a handful of sand and allows it to fall through his fingers. "I feel like this sand most of the time. Unstable, drifting along the shore day in, day out, wherever the wind takes me."

"You used me and Red John as your anchors to real life for years. It's going to take some readjustment without us."

He nods firmly. "I want to be rid of him. I want to untie him and cast him overboard. But with...with you, I don't want to let go. With you, I just want to hold on tighter."

"I don't quite know what to say to that."

He laughs half-heartedly. "Yeah, me either. Obviously."

"I have to go soon," she states, troubled. "The tequila's wearing off."

Forlornly, "I know." He looks straight at her. "You're a little more blurred than when you first arrived. Strange that, isn't it? That drinking makes you appear clearer and everything else less so."

She smiles. "You going to be okay?"

"Aren't I always?" he assures her confidently.

"Don't lie to me, Jane. Or yourself."

"I'll try to be," he says, correcting himself. "One day at a time, as the old saying goes."

"You're not going to call me, are you? No matter how many times we debate about it together."

He shakes his head. "No. But it's fun imagining it and talking to you about it. Every single time we have that same conversation."

"Then maybe you'll come up with something else. A different way of staying in touch with the real version of me. Might...might help you withdraw from this version."

"But I like this one," he smiles. "Especially as I can dress you how I choose and put words in your mouth."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Yeah, I know how much you like to dress me up. I remember a month ago when you put me in a leather catsuit after too much scotch."

He grins. "To be fair Batman had aired that night in the Hotel, Lisbon. Where else was my imagination going to take me? You were...you were very fetching."

She shakes her head. "Hmm. You didn't have much to say for yourself that night if I recall correctly. You spent most of the time just gawking at me."

He looks away and laughs awkwardly. "Any idea what the protocol is for apologising to a hallucination for some extremely inappropriate thoughts?"

She giggles for a moment or two until she becomes sombre again. "I'm serious, though, Jane. You're doing this too much, imagining me here with you, talking to me. Drinking more just to have these conversations when you're barely half-conscious."

"I can't seem to find you when I'm sober, my high functioning brain won't allow it. And at least I'm not taking belladonna to do it, bella donna," he grins.

"I'm not falling for your charm, Patrick Jane. And you can't distract me with it. You're in danger of cutting yourself off from reality altogether if you continue like you are."

Soberly, "I know."

"You can't let that happen. Not again. And there isn't a psych ward a hundred miles from here to help see you through it this time."

He nods. "You're right. I know I've been drinking too much. Just so I can see you. And that that is...that is seriously messed up."

"You're the smartest man in the room, aren't you? Figure something else out."

"Okay. Okay, I will."

She's barely visible now, almost translucent in the dead of night. He watches her disappear more and more with every blink, focusing on her face until it's grains of sand he sees in place of freckles, black night instead of white skin and cherry lips. Her eyes, dark emerald, are the last vestiges of her he holds onto, focusing wildly on their hue in an attempt to expand the time he has left with her.

Then they blur into nothingness too.

He sighs as he gets to his feet and brushes sand from his clothing. He's exhausted now as he usually is after one of these encounters and he waits for the wave of loneliness to hit him. It does, in time with the splash of water against his toes. He lifts his shoes out of its path just in time. His tequila bottle has fallen over, its contents mixing with seawater.

He was done with it, anyway, he tells himself as he bends down to fetch it. It had served its purpose already. And he's promised imaginary Lisbon he'll try to ease up on the alcohol. He hopes he can keep that promise to her.

He stares at the clear bottle and then at the ocean. He repeats the gesture, his eyes lingering on both for longer moments.

A small smile graces his lips as he imagines a letter tucked inside as he casts the vessel into the waves, its contents somehow finding Lisbon thousands of miles away. A fantasy he enjoys for a split second. But almost an impossibility. A one in a million shot. Perhaps a one in two or ten million shot.

His smile grows as he knows how he can shorten those odds quite dramatically.

Fortunately for him, there is a post office situated in the village. It'll be open again come the New Year. He's already planning on finding some notepaper and has worked out a way of getting letters to her by the time he makes it back to the town centre.

He grins – for the first time in six months he has the perfect plan just ready for execution.

- THE END -