Title: Let This Crimson Ink Fade
Fandom/Crossover: The Mentalist/Stargate SG-1/Stargate Atlantis
Rating: PG-13
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Patrick Jane, Evan Lorne, Daniel Jackson, Jack O'Neill, Cameron Mitchell, Carolyn Lam, Hank Landry, cameos from CBI team. Gen, no pairings.
Warnings: Brief descriptions of violence, mild profanity
Notes: Written for The Mentalist Big Bang 2012. Set sometime during S3 of The Mentalist, post-S10 of SG-1 and early S5 of SGA. AU only due to the fact that Jane has telepathy and empathy, otherwise follows canon. Artwork in the header is by agent-era, view here: snowbunny91. *com* /art/Mentalist-Cover-Art-Let-This-Crimson-Ink-Fade-354011230 (remove the * * in the link)
Summary: Jane really does have telepathic and empathic abilities, but subconsciously repressed them after his family's murders. On the run after finally killing Red John, these abilities resurface during an encounter with a mission led by Major Evan Lorne, and the SGC has to decide if they will recruit him or turn him in to the police.
In the end, things are simple. He has a name and an address.
Red John chokes out a gurgling laugh, tiny bubbles of blood bursting at the corner of his mouth. Crimson streams wind down along the side of his jaw to pool in the hollow of his throat, spilling over to trickle onto the hardwood floor. Jane feels vaguely apologetic for the mess, for the poor soul who is going to have to clean up after him.
"I win in the end, Patrick, no matter what you do," he rasps wetly, voice strained with pain but eyes wide with manic glee. "Your wife and daughter are still dead."
"I know," Jane says, and twists the knife in further to shut him up.
He crouches over Red John for nearly an hour, silent and motionless, watching the light fade from crazed brown eyes. Afterwards, when the eyes of a murderer become simply the eyes of a dead man, Jane stands and takes a careful step away. He glances over the body of Red John – knife still buried in the middle of the chest – and turns away. In his mind's eye, he sees clearly another bloody scene from a lifetime ago that would make the current one look squeaky clean in comparison.
He forces the memory away with practiced ease, his mind falling into an odd blankness.
Jane drifts to the front door left slightly ajar, nudging it open with a foot as he strips the plastic disposable gloves from his hands. He pauses briefly, a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Cho saying no signs of forced entry . Then, more out of habit than any real sense of exigency, he moves towards his car. Inside, he stuffs the gloves into a plastic bag and shoves it into the glove box.
There's a strange hum in his head as he switches his cell phone back on, noting the four calls each from Lisbon and Rigsby, one from Cho and seven from Van Pelt, all in the past three hours. Then there are the numerous text messages, starting off with 'Why is your cell switched off? Get back to the station, we've arrested the suspect.' from Lisbon, 'We're thinking Thai food after this, what do u think?' from Rigsby, and 'Hope u're not out hypnotising someone. Lisbon looks edgy enough.' from Van Pelt.
The tone of the texts shifts from exasperation and annoyance to concern and apprehension sometime around the two hour mark. In the last hour, there is near-panic (Rigsby: where the hell are u?!), fear-anger (Lisbon: Jane, don't do something this stupid. Get back here!), frantic worry (Van Pelt: just come back, we can work things out, ok?) and resignation (Cho: He's not worth this.).
He doesn't even need to think before pressing speed dial number four. His call is picked up almost immediately, not that he expects otherwise.
"Cho," he says brightly.
"Jane," is the response in Cho's measured tones, "what are you doing?"
"Currently? Talking to you on the phone."
There's a pause, with a female voice in the background demanding something, and then a faint clack as the phone is set on a surface.
"I'll rephrase that." Cho's voice is now distant and crackly in the way that indicates he's set the cell on speakerphone. "What have you done?"
In the eyes of the law, he's a criminal now. A fugitive on the run. There's a tiny spark of anxiety, a primal part of his brain urging him to flee, flee, flee for your life. He crushes it into oblivion. "What was necessary."
"Jane," Lisbon's voice breaks in. "Where are you?"
"Arizona. Did you guys get Thai for lunch?"
"Never mind that," snaps Lisbon. "Which part of Arizona? Why are you there? What happened?"
He doesn't answer, flexing his free hand on the steering wheel. He feels disconcerted, with a faint pressure pressing lightly on the inside of his head, like the beginnings of a headache but not quite. The low-volume humming is still there, almost imperceptible. When he tunes back into the conversation, the team is muttering restlessly in the background.
He clears his throat, the voices falling silent.
"Patrick?" Van Pelt, gentle and worried.
"Check my house. There's a file with an address on the kitchen island."
"Jane, don't do this, just tell us – "
"Oh, and Cho? You're wrong. This is worth everything."
Switching the cell off and tucking it into a pocket, he starts the car.
He drives for nearly two hours, taking random exits off one highway to another. The hum resolves into a buzz, and the fleeting noise in his head as he passes vehicles on the road tease at the edge of his memory, viscerally familiar. Tension crawls up his spine slowly as he continues to navigate blindly.
When he finally snaps out of it, it's sunset and he's cruising past a row of seemingly abandoned warehouses, the surrounding area empty. Jane has no idea where he is, but the buzzing in his head urges him onwards. He goes around a corner, and pulls to an abrupt stop.
The scene ahead is a great contrast to the desolate buildings he drove by; dozens of people in uniforms hover outside a warehouse. Jane tries to figure out how they could have gotten there; there isn't a single car in sight aside from his. Speaking of which, half a dozen of the uniformed people break off and head for him. It's hard to tell in the dim lighting, but they seem to be pointing guns at him. Big guns.
As they get closer, the uniform they're wearing becomes visible, and a shocked thrill of recognition runs through him.
Air Force.
"Sir, please get out of the car slowly, hands in the air!" orders one of the airmen, loud and steady.
Working with the police means that Jane is used to hearing that particular sentence, though it's usually not directed at him. He exits the car, hands in the air obediently, not even coming up with a snappy response when he's pushed against the hood of his car and frisked. His head is still buzzing, and the number of people around is distracting. Jane blinks, watching interestedly as another airman holding some kind of scanning device runs it over the car. Nothing happens. A third soldier reaches into the car for the wallet he left on the dashboard, rifling through it to remove his driver's license.
The airman molesting him doesn't find anything, of course, and lets him stand up on his own. The soldiers have lowered their guns, but keep scrutinising him vigilantly as another man approaches the group. The new arrival isn't wearing a uniform, instead donning an all-black ensemble, complete with tactical vest bristling with weapons and radio headset around his ear. He looks ready to lay siege, and who knows, maybe that's what the Air Force is doing here. Laying siege to abandoned warehouses.
The man in black is nondescript, brown hair with standard military haircut, average height and slightly stocky. But the airmen make room for him, one of them handing him the driver's license. The manner in which they look to the man for instructions, deferring to him, makes it obvious that this is an officer.
"Mr Jane, may I know your business here?" Wary, but polite. Jane gives him points for that.
"Would you believe me if I said I happened to be out for a drive and happened to find my way here?" Jane's eyes move back over to the scene in the background, where more men in black are streaming out of the warehouse the soldiers have surrounded. Frustration is tangible in the air, and by this point Jane is sure that, to him at least, that is an almost literal turn of phrase.
The black-clad man calls Jane's attention back to him with a quirk of his lips. "I'm sorry, Mr Jane, but in my line of work I've learnt not to believe in coincidences."
"Well, that's rather cynical, isn't it?"
"An unfortunate side effect of my job."
"Ah, and that job would be…?" Jane prompts.
There's only the briefest second of hesitation before the man replies, "I'm in the Air Force. Major Evan Lorne."
Jane is only half- listening. Concentrating on the weird bzzz bzzz noise in his head makes it lessen in volume and increase in purpose. He turns away from the Major, searching the row of warehouses. When his eyes land on a warehouse four buildings down from the one the Air Force was raiding, the buzzing in the back of his mind coalesces into a single point of intensity and he knows he's found whatever is causing the irritating sound. Except it's not really a sound, because no one else has ever heard these sounds, but it doesn't mean it's not real.
"You wouldn't happen to be looking for a giant bee, would you?" Jane asks casually, not looking away from the warehouse.
"A giant bee?" Major Lorne's voice is perplexed.
"I guess not. Wouldn't be that easy. Well now, this is bothersome." Or maybe not. Jane continues staring, turning over options in his mind.
"What's bothersome, Mr Jane?" There's a sense of let's-go-along-with-the-crazy-guy underlying the Major's tone of voice. It makes him smile, for a moment, reminding him of his team.
Not his team any longer, not after today.
Jane ignores the question, instead nodding at the building he's been looking at for the last two minutes. "Whatever you're looking for is in that warehouse."
Major Lorne is cautious now, and there's a level of tension in him that wasn't there before. "What do you think we're looking for?"
"I have no idea, but I assume whatever is making that annoying buzzing sound in my head."
The change in atmosphere is immediate. He can see the guns rising to aim at him again out of the corner of his eye.
"Mr Jane," he doesn't even have to look, now, to sense the coiling readiness in the Major, the kind that always settled over Lisbon and the others just before they kicked down the door to a suspect's house. "This is important. I have to know, have you had any blackouts in the past twenty-four hours? Periods of time where you don't remember where you've been?"
"No, Major. I know exactly where I've been for the past day," Then, because the seven people surrounding him are all thinking the same thing and making it incredibly easy for him, and because Jane has never been able to resist stirring the hornets' nest, he adds, "and I'm not infected with the retrovirus, whatever that is."
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Usually, Jane has fun watching the chaos that ensues from what he says. This time, however, there are a dozen soldiers wielding big guns who are watching him as if they expect him to sprout a second head any moment. He's briefly tempted to shout "Boo!" at them, but quashes the urge.
Also, the army of people have migrated over to surround the warehouse he pointed out minutes ago. Major Lorne had asked very civilly, so Jane had crossed the wide road to sit on an overturned wooden crate opposite the warehouse, subjecting himself to a dozen guards. Only half of the lamp posts in the area seem to work, so Jane has to squint at the group of soldiers – who he now realises also consists of the odd Marine here and there – to pick out Lorne, who is talking with a hand to the headset on his ear.
As if he feels Jane's eyes on him, the Major turns, frowning at him. Jane waves at him cheerfully, and Lorne's lips twitch for a second before he blanks his face deliberately, and a huddle of soldiers blocks his view.
Jane bites down a sigh. He's tired from what happened today, tired from contemplating what lies in his future now that it's over. The amount of people around him giving him paranoid looks and all thinking along the same line is also giving him a migraine and making him nauseous. It's like a habit he had for years before breaking it, and now he's fallen back into it again.
He wants to be at the CBI office, brewing a pot of cinnamon tea, showing Rigsby a magic trick while Lisbon rolls her eyes. Van Pelt will be watching avidly, and at the end of it Cho will ruin his game by telling them how he did it.
Jane doesn't think he'll ever get to enter the CBI again, not unless he's headed for an interrogation room. And he intends never to end up in that situation. He regrets the pain he will be, and is causing, his friends. But he can't regret what he did.
He'll miss the couch.
Anticipation, thick in the air, nudges at him. He must have missed something, because Lorne is leading a group of dressed-in-black soldiers to join the others who have set up a perimeter around the warehouse. A minute later, the raid begins; half of those gathered slip into the building.
Nothing happens, at first. Then there's a sudden burst of gunfire, and men shouting. Then – then there's a horrible, high-pitched screaming with a chattering rhythm to it that sounds like it's coming from a human throat, but it's not a sound that a human should ever make. More gunshots, a loud crashing noise, and finally the eerie screams cut off.
The bzzz bzzz noise in his head that's been bothering him all evening stops abruptly and Jane knows deep in his bones that the thing, whatever it is, is dead.
Things happen in a blur after that. The area is suddenly swarming with even more people, and Jane has no idea how they got there. He catches a glimpse of a man whose vest has been shredded into pieces, and of a gun which looks like a bear gnawed on it before he's whisked away into a black van, still accompanied by guards. Inside, a woman who introduces herself as Doctor Carolyn Lam wants to take a blood sample. Jane smiles at that – they've always been about taking blood samples – and agrees amiably, which surprises Dr Lam. He gets the feeling that her usual patients would never submit quietly to her needles.
They drive to a small, out-of-the-way airstrip, where a helicopter is waiting. Jane says goodbye to the doctor, and gets in with his military escort. He doesn't ask where they're heading, but he doesn't need to.
Jane is proven right an hour later, when Cheyenne Mountain comes into view.
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Daniel is buried deep in his work, cross-referencing the photo on his computer of Ancient script carved into the hilt of a sword with the Ancient written on a roll of parchment. He's about to tentatively conclude that the script on the sword is an altered version of a piece of Ancient poetry when a hand landing on his shoulder startles him. He blinks and squints up to find a vexed-looking Cameron Mitchell.
"Is something the matter, Cam?"
The Lieutenant Colonel exhales in frustration. "What happened to your office phone, Doc?"
"My phone?" His eyes immediately go to the spot on his desk where his office phone is, except it's covered with rolls of parchment. He moves them away but his phone is nowhere to be found. Flummoxed, he follows the phone jack in the wall until it leads him to the floor beside his desk where the overturned machine is lying amongst a pile of stone tablets.
Sheepishly, Daniel returns the phone to his desk, placing the receiver back into its proper position. When he looks up again, Cam is still wearing that expression of long-suffering patience. "What about your cell? Did you forget to switch it on again?"
Confused, he digs his cell out of his pocket. The screen remains blank when he presses a random button, and there's no response either when he tries to power it on.
"It must have run out of battery. Why? Did you call me?"
Cam sighs and drags a chair over. He lowers himself into it carefully, mindful of his bruised ribs and awkwardly adjusting his left arm which is still in a cast. "I didn't call you, but General O'Neill sure did."
"Jack? What for?"
"No idea, but it seemed pretty important. That's why he sent an injured man down here to check if you were still alive." Cam tries to look pathetic and fails utterly.
Daniel is reaching for the phone when it rings. He picks it up, and before he can say anything Jack's voice is already shouting down the line, "Finally!"
"Oh, hey, Jack. I heard from Cam you were looking for me?"
"Did you forget to charge your cell again?" Jack demands.
Daniel ignores him. "What's going on, Jack?" Cam kicks his chair, and reaches threateningly for a book on his desk, so Daniel hits the speaker button and puts the receiver down before moving the book out of Cam's reach.
"A matter of life and death, that's what's going on." They're briefly interrupted when a voice in the background says something, and Jack responds with no, no, tell them to wait, for cryin' out loud!
"Jack?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm back, hold your horses." The General sounds irritated, and there's a note of stress in his voice that makes Daniel straighten in his chair. It's the tone of voice that means a mission isn't going well. He frowns, glancing at the clock.
Cam is thinking the same thing, because he asks before Daniel can. "Sir, isn't the hunt for the man infected with the Wraith retrovirus going on right now?"
"It would be over by now if we could actually manage to pinpoint his location!" Before they can ask more, Jack continues talking. "But that's not exactly why I called you, Danny. Do you know a man named Patrick Jane?"
Daniel is entirely thrown off. It's a rather unique name, one not easily forgotten, but it's a name he hasn't heard for about five years.
He doesn't respond for a minute, during which Cam watches him worriedly and Jack continues to give orders to unknown people in the background. Finally he answers the question with a question. "How did this come up?"
There's a pregnant pause, where he hears the silent you're not fooling anyone, Danny boy. "He drove up to the warehouse area where we tracked the life sign to. Claimed to be there through coincidence. Then he started acting like a nutjob, saying weird stuff."
Daniel is quiet, thinking. Could it be…?
"Jack, what did he say, exactly?"
"He pointed out a warehouse different from the one our geeks pinpointed, said whatever we were looking for was there. He said there was 'buzzing' in his head, and then," here the suspicion is thick in Jack's voice, "he said he wasn't infected with the retrovirus!"
Buzzing in his head. Knowing things that he couldn't possibly have known. Daniel feels a shock of excitement go through him.
"You think he's another one of Garrick's experiments running loose?" Cam is asking. "Maybe those infected can sense one another, like they're connected mentally as a hive?"
"Yeah, that's the top theory at the moment. But Major Lorne reported that the man doesn't seem dangerous. A little dazed, but he's not showing any signs of being infected. Normal human eyes and everything, when the others we found in Garrick's lab were all, y'know, grrrr." There's the sound of typing on a keyboard before Jack continues speaking. "But the reason I'm talking to you now is because when our techs were checking his identity, his name was flagged in our system. After a little more poking, a note comes up saying 'Contact D. Jackson for info'. Want to tell me what that's about, Daniel?"
"Listen to what he said, Jack."
"You want me to trust the word of a guy who's probably high on something?"
"Jack, he's not high on anything!"
Jack makes another annoyed noise as the voices in the background grow more insistent. "Fine, fine. We'll check out the building. I'll call you back when the raid's over." The phone connection clicks off.
"So, Doc, you know this Patrick Jane guy?"
Daniel absently shuffles the parchment around his desk, rearranging them, his mind far away, so it takes several moments for Cam's question to register.
"Yeah. Yeah, I do."
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The SGC has become a lot more paranoid since he was last here, Jane thinks. He goes through half a dozen security checkpoints just to get a shiny visitor badge, before he can even step foot into the elevator that brings him and his guards down to the SGC proper.
His guards, two armed airmen, are silent and stern-faced, and Jane doesn't bother trying to talk to them. Instead, he avoids eye contact, and deliberately focuses on the buttons in the elevator which are arranged in reverse order, with one at the top and thirty-six at the bottom. They stop at level ten, and Jane is escorted into the infirmary where the same doctor who took his blood sample in the van two hours ago is waiting. Jane waves at her in greeting as he looks around. The infirmary is different, too. Understandable; the government would undoubtedly have ensured that the medical equipment in a military facility is constantly upgraded.
"Dr Lam, right?"
She smiles warmly at him. "That's me. Now, Mr Jane, if you would just come with me, I need to do a few tests…"
The doctor's friendly presence makes the atmosphere in the infirmary tranquil and safe, and he can't help relaxing. Jane follows her instructions obediently while the airmen watch his every move. He changes into a pair of scrubs she conjures for him. He has his heartbeat listened to, his blood pressure measured, his eyes looked at, another vial of blood taken, x-rays done, and finally lies down to have an MRI scan.
"Last one," Dr Lam promises as she sits him down on a bed and attaches several wires to a strange device, the padded ends going to his temples and chest. When she's done fiddling with it, she reaches behind her to hand the day's newspaper to him. "If you could read the front page, please?"
Jane shakes out the paper. "Out loud?"
He hears the grin in her voice as she replies, "Just to yourself, Mr Jane."
The front page article is about the state of the economy, and some debate about tax bills, so he flips until a photo of an adorable tiger cub catches his eye. Dr Lam doesn't stop him, so he reads about how the Colorado Springs Zoo has welcomed its first tiger cub born in captivity. They're naming him Hunter, which is a terrible name. When he's done, he folds the newspaper up neatly and puts it aside.
Dr Lam's face is fixed with concentration on the screen of the device as she passes him a sheet of paper.
Jane looks at it for a few moments. Then he asks, just to clarify, "I'm supposed to read this?"
"Just try it, Mr Jane."
"Okay." He looks again. Then rotates the paper upside down. Rotates it back. The weird, blocky lettering that looks like a language but not any that he recognises still doesn't make sense. He frowns down at it for a while longer, trying to decode it, before giving up.
"Sorry, I can't read this. Does this mean I fail the test?"
Dr Lam takes the sheet of paper back from him and tucks it back into a folder. "There's no right or wrong answer, Mr Jane."
"So this is like a personality test? I've always liked those."
Before she can respond, Jane hears the doors of the infirmary open behind him.
'Air Force General,' Jane thinks, not because he knows it but because the airmen in the room do. His eyes catch on Dr Lam looking past him. 'Jack O'Neill'. A split second later the airmen react with salutes and choruses of "Sir!"
"At ease." The new arrival walks around the bed towards Jane and Dr Lam, who is staring down, surprised, at the device which Jane is still attached to.
"Our guest done here, Doc?" the General asks casually, his dress blues creasing and wrinkling as he slouches against a desk, affecting an air of nonchalance. Trim and fit for someone in his fifties, O'Neill's greying hair does nothing to hide how keen his eyes are as he sizes Jane up. Jane, for his part, looks back to a point just past Dr Lam's right shoulder after a quick glance at the newcomer.
"Not quite yet, General," Dr Lam says apologetically. "I have some questions for you, Mr Jane, if you wouldn't mind answering them?"
He knows what the questions will be about. Jane knew this would happen the moment he showed his hand to Lorne back at the warehouse, when he first recognised the familiar echoes in his head. He had been planning to vanish into obscurity by calling in a few favours, wander about until he either found a new purpose or –
Well. At least throwing his lot in with the SGC guarantees that he'll have something to do. The SGC was interested in him five years ago before he lost everything; he's sure that the SGC will be interested now that his abilities have returned. The presence of people like Lorne, Dr Lam and O'Neill – all fundamentally good people as his intuition tells him – are a positive sign that he's unlikely to be whisked away into a laboratory somewhere and experimented on.
"Sure, Doc," he says lightly. "Ask away."
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Jane keeps his gaze on the floor. Jack O'Neill stands in the opposite corner from Jane in the elevator, not even pretending that he's not staring at him. Jane would like to look closely at the General, he really would, because physical appearance and body language are excellent insights into a person. But eye contact is really not a good idea right now, not until he relearns how he used to arrange everything neatly in his brain without various thoughts and emotions melting white-hot into one another.
The man seems content to just watch, so the silence continues when they reach level twenty and they walk down the boring grey corridor to reach an unmarked metal door. O'Neill opens the door and sweeps a hand out in a mocking invitation; Jane enters alone.
A familiar face is seated at the table, jabbing distractedly at a laptop. As Jane walks in, Daniel Jackson looks up and brightens, closing the laptop. The linguist stands and holds out a hand for him to shake but almost immediately withdraws it again.
"Sorry, I don't think you want any skin-to-skin contact right now?" Daniel says sheepishly.
"No, no, it's fine." Jane stops in front of Daniel and braces himself, trying to remember how he did this before. "I can't avoid people forever, after all."
Daniel offers his hand again patiently. Jane takes a deep breath, slipping his palm into Daniel's and gripping it firmly, flicking his eyes up at the same time to make eye contact.
Jane had always been naturally intuitive even as a child, picking up all sorts of tricks from his father's swindler career as a carnival psychic. He had always believed – and still believes now – that most of what he can do comes from spotting subtle cues that people unconsciously give away and using delicate manipulation techniques. The burgeoning headaches that crept up on him in his late teens and the accompanying abilities shifted his worldview, because there's really no way of explaining how he can 'hear' someone's thoughts, word-for-word, or how he can affect someone's emotions through sheer force of will.
It took a few years, but he eventually integrated his abilities into his work. There's a trick of focusing and defocusing at the same time, letting others' thoughts and emotions just fade away and be ignored as background noise unless he needed them. He took full advantage, of course, because what did it matter if people got hurt by his invasion of their minds? It was just information, after all, and he had had a family to support. And if the media started making a fuss about him…well, the attention and the money had been nice.
How the mighty have fallen.
Daniel has become fitter and more muscular since they last met years ago, and there's a distinctly military vibe around the man, from the haircut to the posture. The calluses on his hand are well-worn, with a particular scar in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger that can only come from long-term handling of guns. The linguist looks tired and sleep-deprived, the lines around his eyes strained as if he's spent too much time staring at a book or a screen. There's a smudge of ink on his temple that indicates he's spent some time recently with paperwork in a state of frustration, and biscuit crumbs on his collar from the remnants of his last meal.
Daniel's also thinking of some odd blocky symbols that look similar to the language Dr Lam showed him earlier, but that thought is a fleeting image that he brushes off easily enough.
When Jane drops his hand, he doesn't need his ability to recognise the eager curiosity in Daniel's features, a trait of his that's remained unchanged.
"It's getting easier to manage, but I'm still working on it." He drags out the chair next to Daniel's and sits, the other man following suit. "It's like riding a bike; I'll remember eventually."
"I know this is a stupid question, but how are you?" the linguist queries.
"Better than I've been for years, but in some ways also worse." It's an honest if cryptic answer, but Daniel has always liked puzzles. It's one of the reasons why they got along so well when they first met.
Daniel nods solemnly and doesn't push further. "Patrick, what happened to make your abilities come back?"
He's so exhausted, emotionally and physically. "You know what made the abilities regress the last time?"
"Your family's murders," says Daniel frankly with a hint of sympathy, and Jane appreciates the straight-forwardness. Even appreciates the sympathy from Daniel, because while that particular sentiment from others tends to sit badly with him, Daniel is one of the exceptions. The linguist has faced the loss of his own wife in tragic circumstances, and that shared grief connects them. Daniel had been the only person apart from family who had turned up for the funeral, and to this day Jane doesn't know why the man had bothered. Jane knows he used to be a bastard back then.
There are cameras in this room and their conversation is likely being recorded, but he's too tired to lie. Too tired to run. One way or another, his Red John obsession days are over. This is the beginning of 'after'.
"About seven, eight hours ago, I tracked Red John to his safehouse in Flagstaff, Arizona. He's dead, now."
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"Lorne!"
Evan half-turns, waiting for Mitchell to catch up before setting off down the corridor again. "Colonel. How're the arm and ribs?"
Mitchell grimaces, glancing self-consciously down at his left arm, bulky cast conspicuous. "Ribs are healing up fine. Cast comes off next week, but I'm still barred from going through the Stargate for another three weeks."
Evan nods sympathetically. "Going stir-crazy, I bet."
"Like you wouldn't believe. Sadly enough, this is the most interesting thing that's happened recently." Mitchell nods at the file he's holding under one arm. "Info on this Jane guy?"
"Updates on an incident he was involved in earlier today." If you could call killing someone an 'incident'.
They reach the door of the conference room, curtailing any further conversation. Inside, General Landry gestures to the empty chairs across from General O'Neill, Dr Jackson and Dr Lam.
"Colonel Mitchell, Major Lorne, have a seat and we can start."
Evan settles himself across from Jackson, arranging the file on the table neatly in front of him, uncomfortable. It's been far too long since he's been in a meeting with two Generals in attendance. Granted, O'Neill is currently folding a paper airplane out of what looks like a requisition form, but he's grown used to a civilian leader and Sheppard's easy-going style of command.
"Major Lorne, why don't you begin with how you first came into contact with Mr Patrick Jane?" asks Landry.
Lorne straightens in his seat. "Yes, sir. I'm sure everyone is aware of the mission I led to track down the men infected with the Wraith retrovirus in the Garrick incident?"
About a week ago, Atlantis received word from the SGC regarding one of their scientists in the biology department, Martin Garrick. Garrick had apparently retired, but a routine inventory check revealed that several samples of the Wraith retrovirus Atlantis had sent the SGC for analysis had gone missing. A raid at Garrick's abandoned home revealed that the scientist had extensive notes on Wraith-human retrovirus experimentation, and further investigation unearthed the fact that Garrick had been bought over by the Trust to start a super-soldier programme.
Evan, having lost a drinking game with Sheppard, had been 'volunteered' for the retrieval mission on Earth, armed with Wraith life sign detectors and support from the Prometheus. In Garrick's hidden lab, the two people subjected to experimentations were rabid and too far gone, getting themselves shot and killed when they tried to rip out soldiers' throats. A third man had escaped and necessitated a search of the surrounding warehouse district.
"The life sign detector was having a hard time pinning down the third man's location, given that he was only part Wraith. I was organising a sweep of every building when one of my men informed me that a civilian had just driven on-site. It turned out to be Mr Jane. After he mentioned 'buzzing' in his head, I had him detained and immediately reported to General O'Neill."
O'Neill finally sets down the paper airplane he's been fiddling with. "Which is when my techs searching for information on Patrick Jane got a hit in the SGC's database. Apparently, he was once considered for recruitment into the Stargate programme, and the man sent to get a feel for him was you, Daniel. What I want to know is why I didn't know about this at the time?"
Jackson leans forward, looking pleased to finally have a turn at speaking. "About five years ago, SG-1 was in the middle of enforced leave, and we all went off to do our own thing. Sam and Teal'c went on a road trip, Jack was fishing at his cabin, and I attended various symposiums in San Francisco. Patrick was on vacation with his family and staying at my hotel, and we got to talking after I ran into him at the bar. That was when I started getting the feeling that something was odd about him."
"Odd?" Mitchell inquires.
"It was the same feeling as I would get sometimes off-world, when I just know that this or that native is fishy and has something up his sleeve, you know? He knew too much about me, things he couldn't have known just from watching me. Then my keychain lighted up – "
"Keychain?" Dr Lam interrupts.
O'Neill waves a hand through the air idly. "One of the Ancient thingamabobs that we found off-world. As far as Carter could tell it was just pretty light-up decorations, so Hammond used to tell us to bring it with us as a keychain or piece of jewellery to identify potential recruits. So this Jane has the ATA gene. What happened after?"
"It was Patrick mentioning his career as a fake psychic that was the clincher," Jackson explains. "I knew it was possible, so I tested him by thinking specific thoughts and things like that, and I knew I had him by his reactions. It took a few hours, but he eventually told me he was telepathic and empathic. I managed to convince him to come into the SGC for Janet to test him."
"But obviously we didn't end up recruiting him." Mitchell raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"
The linguist hesitates, pushing his glasses up his nose. "A few weeks after we met, he did a television interview where he openly ridiculed a serial killer nicknamed Red John. In retaliation, Red John murdered his wife and daughter."
Even though Evan had read about it a few hours ago, hearing it out loud like that is sobering. Dr Lam flinches backwards, horrified, while the expressions of the others who hadn't known turn stoic.
"He gave up his job, and a while later I persuaded him to come back to the SGC again. It turns out he somehow lost all his abilities, and with the state of mind he was in, the SGC wouldn't have hired him anyway. George, Janet and I agreed that for security reasons it would be best to seal all the files related to Patrick unless one of us gave permission to unseal them. And since out of the three I'm the only one left, my name is the one on his file."
Mitchell blinks in confusion. "How does he just stop being a psychic? It's not like a light bulb where you can just switch it on and off, isn't it?"
"That's what I would like to know as well. Is it actually possible for him to lose his telepathy and empathy, just like that?" Landry turned to Dr Lam. "Doctor?"
"As far as I can tell, yes. Do any of you know of epigenetics?"
Blank stares all around.
"Right. To simplify, epigenetics is about how changes in gene expression occur because of reasons unrelated to changes in the DNA structure. Hence, non-genetic causes result in genes behaving differently. The ATA gene is always 'on', so to speak, constantly telling cells in the body to produce various enzymes and proteins that interact with the skin, nervous system and brain, which allows gene carriers to control Ancient tech by thought alone."
Dr Lam flips open a file in front of her, perusing it. "Dr Fraiser recorded that Mr Jane has a mutated form of the ATA gene, and after my own testing today, I agree with her assessment. Different enzymes and proteins are produced in different amounts which in turn interact with his brain dissimilarly as compared to a normal gene carrier, and his brain function shows unusual activity that I believe indicates his abilities."
"The Goa'uld had a term, Hok'taur," O'Neill says. "Advanced human. This guy one of them?"
"I thought about that, General," Dr Lam admits, "but other than the mutated ATA gene, the rest of his DNA is perfectly normal. He's plain old human."
"He's not one of the Ascended?" Landry questions with concern.
Dr Lam shook her head. "No, definitely not. He didn't react to the Ancient language I showed him, but did react when General O'Neill entered the infirmary unexpectedly behind him. I have a baseline from Daniel, and Mr Jane's brain activity is entirely unlike his.
"The results that I obtained today are nearly identical to what Dr Fraiser documented during Mr Jane's first test. However, the second round of tests after Mr Jane's loss showed that his ATA gene was no longer active. There was an addition of a new methyl group to his DNA nucleotide structure that effectively shut down the ATA gene's expression, and by extension his abilities."
Mitchell frowns. "Do you know why that happened? And why his abilities are back now?"
"You have to understand that this is just speculation, but my guess is that Mr Jane blamed his telepathy and empathy for his family's deaths, so he subconsciously repressed his abilities. All of us know how powerful the mind is when applied; guilt and grief are very strong emotions." Dr Lam closes the file, sitting back in her chair. "As for why his abilities returned, I assume that something happened to alleviate that grief and guilt?"
She sends a questioning glance around the table. Evan is about to bring up the contents of his own file when Jackson clears his throat.
"Patrick said that Red John is dead now."
O'Neill rolls his eyes. "Daniel, Hank and I heard the playback of your conversation with him. He played verbal dodgeball. Never outright said 'I killed Red John' but what he did say basically amounts to a confession."
"Which leads us to Major Lorne, who I asked to find out more with regards to Patrick Jane's actions yesterday." Landry nods at him. "Go on, Major."
"Yes, sir." Evan opens his file, scanning through it quickly even though he's already memorised most of it. "Patrick Jane, a civilian consultant with the California Bureau of Investigation, also known as the CBI, was reported missing by his team at around three in the afternoon yesterday. About two hours later, senior agent and team leader Teresa Lisbon called in a favour from a friend from the Flagstaff Police Department, and the Flagstaff PD raided an address provided by Agent Lisbon.
"A man in his early forties was found dead of blood loss from a stab wound, with preliminary tests suggesting he was drugged. Overwhelming evidence was discovered in the house that proves the man was the serial killer Red John. No signs of forced entry were found."
Mitchell shifts uneasily. "So Jane is wanted by the police?"
Evan shakes his head. "Jane is listed as a suspect, but there's no evidence linking him to the crime. His car is still at his home, and there're no flight records in his name. Apparently, he's known for disappearing for days at a time without warning his team, and because he's a civilian consultant he doesn't actually have to check in with the CBI. And there's something odd going on with his team; when Agent Lisbon was questioned about how she obtained the address, she claimed it was one of many of Red John's suspected safehouses they had on file, and she 'had a hunch about this one'."
"Talk about fishy," drawls O'Neill. "What else?"
"We searched the car that Jane was driving – which is unmarked, by the way, and isn't under anyone's name – and found plastic disposable gloves with blood on them. We're still running the DNA search, but I think none of us would be surprised if it matched that of the man killed. Also, Jane's cell phone shows a call with his team member, Agent Kimball Cho, at about four in the afternoon, lasting three and a half minutes. His CBI team was specifically questioned about Jane's whereabouts, but all of them stated that they hadn't had contact with him since noontime."
"Right. So his team's covering up for him, that's all dandy." O'Neill crosses his arms. "What I don't get is why we're talking about this. We can just hand him and the evidence off to the cops and be done with him."
"Jack!" says Jackson disapprovingly.
"What?" O'Neill stares at him. "You can't seriously be thinking of recruiting him?"
"He's not only a gene carrier, but a telepath and empath! He could be useful working for the SGC, has already been useful!"
"Jack, Dr Jackson," Landry cuts the two men off. "I have to say that Dr Jackson has a point. It's not every day that we have someone with Jane's abilities, though the suspected murder is troubling."
"Oh, troubling, you say?" Jack snarks.
"I really don't think any of us in this room other than Carolyn has any room to throw stones at Patrick," Jackson says sharply. "Yes, he killed someone. A serial killer who slaughtered his family. Which of us wouldn't have done the same thing if it had happened to us?"
Jackson scans over the table's occupants, and Evan finds himself avoiding those uncomfortably piercing eyes. He tries to imagine what he himself would be like if his parents and sisters were murdered, or his Atlantis team, and shudders.
"I'm just saying," states Jackson earnestly, "that we've all done things that should have landed us in jail, but because of our jobs we're protected, and we wouldn't have done anything differently. Patrick could not be any less similar to a psychopath. He got rid of Red John, and that's it. He's not planning to go on a killing spree, and I doubt he's capable of it anyway."
"Doc," Mitchell sighs, "you're getting that crazy look in your eyes again. This guy is going to end up as one of your crusades, isn't he?"
Jackson just looks defiant. Scowling, O'Neill drops that line of argument and picks up another. "And how do we know if his psychic whatever is reliable? What if it just shuts off again?"
"Jack, Patrick's abilities don't just turn on and off whenever he wants them to. The only reason they quit working five years ago is because he subconsciously blamed them for his family's murders. Now that he's stopped repressing them, we have to assume that it's going to remain this way." Jackson gestures fervently. "It took years for him to learn how to control his abilities, he needs time to adjust. He's having trouble now in a controlled environment like the SGC. Putting him in jail is going to hinder, not help."
"We're not humanitarians, Daniel. What, exactly, would he do here if we hired him?"
"Dr Lam," interrupts Landry. "I understand that you tested Mr Jane's abilities. To what extent would they be useful to the SGC?"
The doctor ignores O'Neill and Jackson glaring at each other. "His telepathy is limited to surface thoughts, what one is currently thinking about. He can't, for example, dig into someone's memories. According to Mr Jane, he can't 'read' someone's mind if that person is deliberately 'quiet', such as during meditation. If the person is thinking in a different language, he still gets a general sense of the thought.
"The telepathy is only one-way, but the empathy is more developed; not only can he sense others' emotions, he can project his own upon them. I can't make a judgement on his usefulness to the SGC, but I would say that having someone who knows when the natives are planning a sacrificial ritual with an SG team as the highlight is pretty useful."
"And the incident with the retrovirus-infected man is evidence that Mr Jane can sense the Wraith, though of course there's really no way we can test that right now." Landry rubs his face wearily. "The issue here is one that Jack brought up; what exactly would the SGC do with him? He's a civilian without any relevant qualifications."
Evan doesn't let himself have time to back out. It's an idea he's had since he first read Patrick Jane's file. "Sir?"
Landry tilts his head. "Yes, Major?"
"I'll like to recommend Patrick Jane for the Atlantis expedition as a civilian negotiator, sir." He resolutely doesn't wince when everyone's attention zeroes in on him.
"Your reasoning, Lorne?" O'Neill asks, eyes narrowed.
"Jane's worked with the police for the last three years with the same team. Multiple internal reviews have concluded that while Jane doesn't follow procedure and has a habit of offending witnesses, he has provided superior insights and has a hundred percent solve rate for all the crimes he's been consulted on. He can be charming when he wants to be and has displayed excellent negotiation skills on several occasions."
He takes a deep breath and plunges on. "Atlantis has established that sometimes a little flexibility can go a long way. We don't have enough non-military personnel with negotiation skills, and sometimes civilians are what we need because our soldiers tend to intimidate the natives. Jane's talents make him ideal for such a position, and I can't emphasise enough how valuable his ability to sense the Wraith is. All he needs is some training, maybe under someone like Teyla Emmagan.
"And, well, he's a strong gene carrier, sir," he finishes.
Evan firmly believes that his hunch is right. Jane reminds him of how Ronon Dex used to be like when he first arrived on Atlantis; lost, anxious and wounded, drifting without a purpose. Ronon found his purpose on Atlantis, and Evan trusts that given the chance, Jane will too. Atlantis has always been a city of miracles.
"And Woolsey's been lobbying for more natural gene carriers to be sent to Atlantis." Landry murmurs exasperatedly. "You make a strong case, Major. Objections?"
Jackson is practically beaming, Dr Lam smiling, and O'Neill seems to have exhausted all his protests.
"We either recruit him, or make him sign a ton of nondisclosure agreements before shipping him off to jail for ganking the guy who murdered his wife and daughter. That's a hell of a choice, if you don't mind me saying, sir." Mitchell grins wryly. "What Lorne suggested is a pretty neat solution, all things considered."
"Well, then." Landry clasps his hands together. "This is what we'll do…"
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In a way, Jane's almost glad for these echoes of other people's emotions, because he doesn't know how he himself is supposed to feel. Guilt, maybe. Not because of killing Red John, but because of what his actions may mean for Lisbon and the others. Disappearing like this is going to cause suspicion and the team's going to get a lot of flak, even if the SGC is going to smooth things over officially.
"You okay?" Lorne's voice tugs him out of contemplation.
"Not really, but I will be," he answers absently. He's getting sucked in by the people they're driving past in the streets, so he makes an effort to shake them off and focus on the only other occupant of the car. He's discovered a long time ago that people in the military generally have more organised minds, less thoughts and emotions floating at the surface to trip Jane up. It's a relief to anchor himself with Major Lorne's calmness as the man concentrates on driving.
"I heard from Daniel that you were the one batting for me during the meeting. Thanks for that."
"Dr Jackson helped too, and I didn't say anything that wasn't true." Jane latches onto Lorne's sincerity, letting it buoy him as the minutes pass in easy silence.
"You know you'll have to pass the firearms qualifications, right?"
"I don't like guns."
"That's something we'll have to work on, then."
"I wish you all the luck."
They're only a few blocks away from the CBI when his eyes catch on several figures walking ahead. "Wait, wait, stop here!"
Lorne pulls over and follows his gaze, understanding immediately and remaining quiet.
It's only been three days, but seeing the team now is like a punch to the gut. The numbness he's recently been living with shatters, and it hurts. He wants to be back on his couch, listening lazily to the back-and-forth amongst his team. Wants to be sipping a cup of tea as he harasses each member. Wants to be gently teased by them. He wants.
But.
There's no way he can return to how things were, go back to being a consultant and pretend that he didn't kill Red John. They may have helped him to cover up, but they know about what he did. The team is comfortable and familiar and he loves them, but he doesn't think he can stand being around them. Seeing them constantly will be a reminder of Red John no matter how hard he tries not to associate that bastard with his team. If he goes back, they'll be lying through their teeth for him and he can't do that to them.
A hand squeezes his shoulder. "Hey."
His eyes are misty; when did that happen? He scrubs at his face roughly.
"You mind dialling it down a bit?"
He blinks at Lorne, belatedly realising that the man's face is stressed. He's suddenly aware that his own emotions are running amok and probably projecting onto Lorne. "I'm sorry, give me a moment. I just – sorry."
He closes his eyes, inhaling and trying his best to draw back, doing the mental equivalent of turning the volume switch of a radio down. He finds himself having to reach for Lorne's rooted calmness again as an anchor before he feels right in his own skin. When he opens his eyes again, it's like viewing the world through a peaceful filter. It's not a long-term coping mechanism, but it'll do for now until he regains control over his empathy.
The four of them are just beside the car now, lingering on the sidewalk as they wait to be seated inside their usual diner, chatting away. They have no idea that he's only a few feet away behind tinted windows.
Memorising each of them, he slots them carefully into his memory palace like treasured possessions. He watches until they enter the diner, then slumps down in his seat. "We can go now."
"Not going to talk to them?" asks Lorne mildly even as he starts the car and pulls back into traffic.
"I'll send them a letter." He hesitates, then adds, "Can you make sure I do that?"
"No problem, I'll remind you before the weekly mail call."
"Thanks."
They drive in silence for a while, before amusement curls through the space between them.
"Just so you know who to blame, Dr Jackson is the one who recommended you for the therapy sessions on Atlantis."
He huffs a quiet laugh. "I'll be sure to thank him before we leave."
END