Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist or any of the characters in this story. They belong to CBS, and it's constituents. I'm merely playing in their sandbox.

Summary: Lisbon and her team faced a terrible wave of crime, and now she can't sleep.

Note: This story continues along the same thread as my previous story I'll Take the Nightmares Any Day. It would be wise to read that story first, as there are references to it in this tale.

Whatever Dreams May Come

I'm standing at the bay window of my apartment, in the dark, alone, with a stoneware mug of tea in my ice-cold hands. I've had only about 15 hours of sleep in a week, and I can't sleep for fear of what I might see. I would gladly take the week from hell over the week I just had. Well, one week and one day. Eight days where it seemed that everyone in the state of California went mad and took a holiday to 'Psycho-World.'

O*O

It started with a fire-bug down in Ventura County that decided to set three fires in as many days. The first one wasn't too bad. We weren't even called on it. Minor property damage with no personal injuries. It was obviously arson, as a neighbor had seen someone fleeing the scene and had called 911 the moment he saw smoke wisping out of an open window. Unfortunately, all he could tell the local detectives was that the person was wearing baggy clothes with the hood pulled up over 'his' head. The good neighbor couldn't even be certain 'he' was a 'he', only that the suspect ran south.

The next day, not even a mile away from the first fire, another was set. This time to a house that was almost finished; the family was due to move in next week. It was a total loss, as was the surrounding 10 acres. The only thing that kept the fire from going out of control was the lack of wind. Otherwise, California's a tinderbox. It's wildfire season and some pyro is on the loose, so the local PD called in to CBI to get help in finding the guy. Or gal. Or space alien from the planet Zog.

Which brings me to day three. We had only arrived on the scene of the second blaze when the local detective got a call saying there was another fire two miles north-northeast of where we were. This made my stomach drop into my shoes. As we were driving south last night, the winds off the Pacific came rolling in. With these winds, a cigarette thrown out a car window could destroy thousands of acres and hundreds of homes. By that evening, the fire was out of control and we had no leads to our mystery suspect. As of now, five days later, the body count is up to 27 and the estimated damages is in the millions.

On the morning of day four, with no sleep amongst any of my team, Minelli called me to let me know that the FBI was taking over because we needed to get back to Sacramento. A 4 year-old little girl had been abducted by her estranged father after he nearly beat her mother to death for running away with their daughter, and we needed to track him. He was a convicted felon with violent tendencies. So I had no choice but to call my team together and go north.

It turns out that every single team in the CBI across the entire state was bogged down in other cases. As a matter of fact, all requested leave had been cancelled, no exception, until this crime wave that came with the heat wave was under control. Not a single member of my team was happy about abandoning the people of Ventura County, even Jane. I could tell that he was upset that not even he could offer the FBI any clues as to where to start looking for the suspect. Be that as it may, we had a little girl to save.

Over the subsequent three days, my team interviewed over seventy people, followed a dozen Amber-Alert sightings, and slept maybe 3 hours a piece per day (if lucky) all in an attempt to find the bastard and save the little girl. All of our leads were saying that the guy was fleeing to the southeast towards Iona or Sonora. Jane, on the other hand, insisted he was heading north and the rest was just a diversion. After citing pictures of Oregon and Washington wilderness and books on survival, I was prone to believe him. I had Rigsby put out an alert for Northern California, with an emphasis on towns near Interstate 5 as Jane suggested. I could see how much this case was affecting him, and I knew he wasn't going to make a mistake in his calls. Her life depended on it.

On day seven of the worst week, day four in the search for the little 4 year-old, we finally got our best lead ever. An old friend of Cho's from his military days called him, said he had a man just come in to his store that matched the picture of the suspect, but he didn't see the little girl. Turns out, Cho's old buddy owns a store that sells hunting, fishing, and camping gear in a sleepy little town called Yreka. It just so happens to sit on I-5, round-about twenty miles south of the California/Oregon border.

Lucky for us, we were only about thirty minutes south of there when he called, so I asked Cho to see if his friend could stall him until we got there. He said he would, and I worked on breaking as many local traffic laws as I possibly could. I looked at Jane through the rear-view mirror as he said, "He's not going to give the girl up without a fight. He'll kill her first." I didn't need to tell him that I already knew that. Men of his 'caliber' will destroy what they consider is theirs just to keep anyone else from having it.

The normally 30-minute drive took me less than 20 to make. Rigsby and van Pelt went around to the back to block off his possible escape route, while Cho and I cased the front. I ordered Jane to stay in the car and trusted him to listen for once.

Looking through the store-front window, we could see the suspect standing at the back counter with Cho's friend admiring a rifle next to a pile of camping supplies. His back was to the door. A person on the run will only turn their back to an open door if a.) they are confident, or b.) they are stupid. Since his prison record noted that he was violent but very intelligent, both Cho and I knew that he must have some kind of concealed weapon on him. Our only option was to go in hard and fast.

Cho and I ran quietly through the door and approached him from behind. When we got past the first section of shelves and got to an area that offered at least some cover, I said, "CBI! Move and we will shoot you!" The moment he turned around with that grin on his face, I knew.

"So, you found me," he said with a chuckle. "Better late than never, I suppose. Nobody takes what's mine."

Cho walked up to the man while I held him at gunpoint and put handcuffs on him. Just as the cuffs were tightened (and perhaps a little too tight), I heard Jane scream from outside, "Call an ambulance! I can't get a signal! Call for an ambulance!"

As I turned to run out the front door, I heard the bastard laugh and say, "So, he found the little runt. Too bad he's too late!"

I come out to see Jane in the back of an old, beat-up Ford pickup. Tarpaulins are thrown over the side of the bed, and Jane looked at me with tears streaming down his face. "She's not breathing. Her pulse is barely there, but she's not breathing. Lisbon, she's not breathing!" he whispered out, his voice cracking over the last words.

I screamed for Cho's friend to call 911 as I ran to the truck and vaulted myself into the truck's bed. I pushed Jane to the side as I looked on the face of violence. Her little face was covered in bruises, as was her neck where her father had strangled her. My fingertips brushed lightly against her neck and miraculously felt a very faint flutter. Jane was right, she was still alive.

What terrified me, though, were her fingertips and what little of her lips that I could see. They were blue, and the rest of her skin that was unblemished was a pasty gray. As I began giving her respirations as I had been taught in my first-aid classes, I knew that it didn't look good for her. Even if her father had strangled her right before walking through the front doors, it was still nearly thirty minutes since we had received the call. The brain just isn't designed to live that long without oxygen. I was trying to breathe life into her, though I knew the best we could hope for was for her to be a vegetable for the rest of her life.

I was jolted out of my dark thoughts by the sound of sirens coming down the road. In a relatively quick time, the paramedics had jumped out of their vehicle, pushed me off the truck bed, got to work on her, put her on a stretcher, loaded her into the ambulance, gave the information to van Pelt–who, with Rigsby, had joined us up front–as to where they were taking her, and drove off with their sirens screaming.

I felt something soft being pressed into my hand, and looked down to see it was Jane's handkerchief. I looked up to him in question, and he whispered, "You're crying." My fingers unconsciously touched my cheek, and I pulled them away to find out there were indeed wet. I turned my back to him and the rest of the team and scrubbed my face dry with the cloth.

"You just knelt over the broken body of a little girl and kept her alive," Jane said quietly to the back of my head. "The last thing you need to be ashamed is crying."

I knew he was at least partially right, but I turned around and said, "I refuse to let that SOB see what he did to her reflected on my face. I'll be damned before I give him that satisfaction."

Jane had the decency–for once–to not call me out on that half-truth as I strode up to my team and started issuing orders. In no time at all, the suspect was loaded into the SUV with van Pelt, Rigsby, and Cho, while Jane and I took the sedan back to headquarters in Sacramento. They saw to it the man was booked, while I started on the paperwork and called the hospital the child had been taken to so they could update me on her condition.

They said they'd had her flown down to the Children's Hospital here in Sacramento, as they weren't well equipped to deal with a child in her condition. I called Children's Hospital, and they gave me the news that her prognosis was grave. So far, there had been no response from her whatsoever, and they gave me the ususal 'we remain hopeful, but...' that doctors usually give. What it boiled down to was that they would do an EEG test in twenty-four hours. If there was still no activity or response, they would declare her brain-dead.

By the time I got home, it was nearly midnight and I was exhausted. I had slept very little in the past seven days, and it was catching up to me. But after falling asleep on my bed fully-clothed, I woke up two hours later from nightmares about half-dead little girls. I had to disagree with Jane this time. Reality didn't make the nightmares any better because in the waking world, she was still half-dead. Last night, I wanted dreams. Whatever dreams may come, I wanted them. But sleep eluded me for the rest of the night.

Now, a week of hell is bad enough, but I must have broken a mirror or walked under a ladder or done something to deserve an extra day. Maybe it was abandoning the people of Ventura County to the fires of a pyromaniac. Maybe it was not working hard enough or driving fast enough to save a little girl. I must have done something to deserve it.

Because today, I killed a man.

O*O

I look down into my now-cold tea as my last thought punches me in the gut. I've been in shootouts before, I've even wounded suspects before, but I've never taken a life. Life is a very precious thing to me, and even though every cop and agent in this country knows that sometimes we must take a life to save others, it never prepares you for the day you do.

I walk into my kitchenette, wash my hands, and get a fresh cup of tea. It's the height of summer, and I can't seem to get warm. It's 87 F (30 C) in my apartment, since I turned off my air conditioner, yet I'm bundled up like it's mid-winter. I pad softly back to my window and stare out into the lights of the city.

I suppose that even though I always knew that I might have to take a life in the line of duty, I had always thought it would be that. In the line of duty. The fact is, I wasn't even on duty at the time.

O*O

I knew there was no way I was going to get any more sleep, so I got up. I checked my personal e-mail. I read a few chapters from a novel I had purchased the day this whole week began, but never had a chance to pick up. I went for an eight mile (thirteen kilometer) run at 5 o'clock. I took a shower and ate breakfast, but it was still only 6. I decided I might as well go in early and prepare to grill the man we arrested the day before, so I grabbed my badge and credentials, got my pistol from the lockbox on my bedside table, and drove out.

I almost passed the 24-hour coffee shop about five minutes away from work, but decided to stop anyway. I could have waited until I got to headquarters, but the coffee in the break room would strip the shellac from the floor. And after only two hours of sleep, I needed the kick without sacrificing my stomach lining.

The café was busy for 6 a.m., with a line of five people ahead of me. The lady at the front of the line moved to the right to await her order, and the rest of us sheep took a step forward. I looked to my left just in time to see a young man stride in with his revolver raised and shouting, "Nobody move!" There were the obligatory screams and curses and 'oh, my God' being shouted, but nobody moved. The light jacket I wore covered my badge and gun so he couldn't see it. That is usually a good thing, as the presence of a police officer can cause a robber to act in very stupid ways. All I had to do was hand over my wallet without him seeing them, and we would all get out of this just fine.

The only flaw in my reasoning is that you can't always account for the actions of other people. He had ordered that nobody leave, nobody use their cell phones, and he was going around collecting everyone's wallets. As he came further in, I could see some young kid–no more than 15 or 16–eying the door like he was going to bolt. All I could do was pray over and over 'don't do it.' and hope that he wouldn't run for it. It was all for naught, because as soon as the robber turned slightly away from him, the kid made a break for it.

It was all over in less than a second, but it took an eternity. As the robber pointed his gun at the kid's back, I felt my right hand brush my jacket aside, unsnap my holster, free my gun, aim at the robber, and fire three rounds into his chest. I didn't even think about it; it was a reflex.

I immediately grabbed my badge and shouted, "CBI! No one is to leave this place until after the police release you!" I walked up to the robber, and kicked his gun away from the hand it had fallen out of. He was still alive, but I could tell he wasn't going to make it.

O*O

A soft rapping at my door startles me out of my musings. I look at the clock and see that it is after 3 a.m. There is only one person in the world who would come and see me at this hour.

"You can come in, Jane," I say at barely above a whisper. "The door's unlocked."

Somehow he has heard me, as the next thing I hear is the door quietly opening and Jane reply, "I know. I just thought it would be the polite thing to do." He looks around and immediately takes off his jacket and asks, "Is your air conditioning broken? It's sweltering in here."

"No," I reply softly. I think about elaborating, but he'll know in half a glance that somehow–even in this heat–I'm cold.

True to his nature, Jane walks slowly towards me and places his hands over mine that are still wrapped around the now-empty mug. "Your hands are ice cold!" I can tell that he is somehow worried by that, as he quickly turns around and walks over to the light switch and flips it. I can tell by the look on his face as he strides back over to me that his worry has just flashed over into concern. He grabs my hands again, gives my a quick once over, and says, "Lisbon, you're in shock!"

"No, I'm not," is my immediate reply. But as soon as I say it, I realize that I might be. Instead of the indignant tone I was going for, I hear my voice come out in a flat whisper.

"Don't give me that!" he snaps. "You're cold as ice in a very warm room. Your pupils are dilated. Your pulse is thready. You're white as a sheet! Don't tell me you're not in shock!" He pulls me over to my couch and forces me to lay down. I know he's not angry with me, he's just afraid of what he is seeing, but that doesn't stop an incensed squeak from coming out of me when he lifts my feet and places a couple of throw pillows under them.

"Jane, what do you think you're doing!" comes out with a little more strength than I've felt all night. His only reply was to take the afghan from the back of the couch and lay it over me. When he starts tucking the loose ends under my body, I can't take it and start struggling. "Jane, stop that! I'm not some sick little kid that needs to be tucked in by her daddy."

He gives me a look that stops all other protests. It's a look of fear; not worry or concern, but actual fear. He stands up straight and pulls his cell phone from his pocket. "Who are you calling?" I ask him. I can tell my voice has gained back a bit of its strength just in the few minutes since Jane arrived.

"911."

I may have stopped protesting at his look of fear, but my fear of hospitals started them back up. "Don't you dare, Patrick Jane!" I nearly scream. I start kicking the afghan off and flailing my arms to try and get to his phone so I can rip it out of his hands. Not for all the tea in China will I go to hospital, not even to quell Jane's fears.

He drops his cell to the floor, and tries to grab my arms to stop them from flying around. "Lisbon!" he cries out as I try to grab at his phone on the floor. "Stop it! Calm down! You need to lay still." When I keep scrabbling for it, he grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a shake. "Teresa!"

That pulls me up short. I've never heard him use my name before. It's always 'Lisbon' and occasionally 'woman,' but never 'Teresa'. He's panting hard from his struggle with me and I can feel his fingers digging painfully into my shoulders. When he reaches down to pick the phone up off the floor, I quickly grab his hand and say, "No, Jane! No 911. No hospitals. I'll lay here quietly. I'll take my fourth hot shower of the day to warm up. I'll put on a grass skirt and dance the hula if you want me to, just no doctors and no hospitals."

He looks me in the face for a moment and asks, "You know how to hula?"

"Jane," I growl out, irritated that he would be sidetracked by something as unimportant as that.

A small grin appears on his face. "What? You're the one that brought it up." He can see that I'm becoming exasperated with his antics, so he quickly follows it up with, "Well, your color is coming back and your voice is certainly stronger now. I guess we can put it off for now."

He is right. I am starting to feel the heat of my apartment and ask him if he could turn on the air conditioning unit. When he returns to my side, he sits on the edge of the couch and asks, "Hula aside, what did you mean about your 'fourth shower of the day'?"

I give a small sigh, not sure how–or even if–I should answer him. I know that he occasionally opens up to me, showing more of his true self to me than to any other person, but a part of me hesitates to open up the same way. I suppose it goes back to me being a 'control freak,' as he puts it. I sigh and turn my head to the side and look out the bay window I've stared out of for most of the night. "The first was this morning after my morning run. The second was to wash all the blood off of me. And the third was because I was cold." The last one was only a half-truth, but he didn't need to know that.

"Blood?" he asks, alarm filling his voice. "What do you mean, blood? You weren't injured, were you?" He starts moving the afghan aside to check for my nonexistent wounds.

"No," I say quietly, trying to push his hands away and pull the blanket back up. "I wasn't injured." I remember that Jane wasn't at Headquarters today, so he doesn't know all the finer details of my day. I don't want to elaborate, but I know he won't settle at that. "After I shot the robber, I went up to him and moved his gun out of reach. That's when I saw he was still alive." I suddenly start feeling trapped, almost claustrophobic, and push Jane to stand up. He tries to stop me from doing the same, but I tell him, "I just need to stand up. I need to breathe." He lets me get up silently and follows me to the window where I stare out.

"He was still alive," I continue, "still struggling to breathe when I knelt at his side. I could tell, even as I was calling for an ambulance and police, that he wasn't going to survive. I removed my jacket and pressed it to his chest and told him the medics were on their way. I could tell he was terrified as he choked on his own blood." My voice is starting to crack now, but it's like a floodgate has been opened and I can't stop the words from coming. "He was choking and I was just kneeling there over him and there was nothing I could do. There was nothing I could do to save him. I shot him, but I couldn't save him. Oh, God! I killed him. I killed a man! I've killed someone...." I start sobbing and I can't seem to stop. "He coughed up blood all over me. It poured over my hands from his wounds. His blood is on my hands, and no matter how many times I wash them, it's still there. Two showers and countless hand-washes, and I still see his blood!"

I'm nearly hyperventilating now, and hear Jane whispering softly in my ear trying to get me to calm down. I didn't realize it, but at some point during my little breakdown Jane drew me into his arms, and I'm clinging onto him for dear life. I just bury my face into his shoulder and cry like I have never cried before. Not even at my mother's funeral. The cool, hard-nose, by-the-book cop inside of me is just rolling her eyes at my reaction. I know deep down inside there was no other choice. I also know deep down inside that if given the chance to do it over, I would still have taken the shots that killed him. Because I couldn't live with the alternative. To know that he would have killed innocent people that I swore an oath to serve and protect, and if I had done nothing to stop him... Well, I'd be just as guilty of their deaths as I am of his, now.

No, I would do it all over again.

I slowly bring myself under control and pull away. Jane's saying nothing now, but he hands me another handkerchief and I use it to make myself presentable again. The second one in as many days. I still have the one he gave me yesterday in my clothes hamper. At my small chuckle, Jane asks, "What?"

"I seem to be collecting these things," I laugh softly. "I promise to get them back to you."

He just shakes his head and goes to sit on the couch. "Nah, don't worry about it. What are a few handkerchiefs–and tears–amongst friends. You'll probably find me needing the favor returned at some point. Just make sure to always carry one around," he finishes with a wink.

I just shake my head and sit down next to him. "When I went through training to become an agent, they told us that there would come a point in every agent's career where we would be faced with what I went through today. Taking another human's life. We're trained to take suspects, no matter who they are or what they have done, alive. All human life is precious. But we're also trained not to try and take them alive at the expense of innocents. I wouldn't change what I did, because everyone else came out alive. Even the kid that ran. The robber's shot went wide; he never got off a second round. I know I saved a lot of lives today, but I can't stop thinking about the one I took."

I suddenly feel a little pensive, because I remember–I know–that Jane is planning to take a life. I know that one day, it could be my best friend that I'm pointing my gun at.

"Don't think about that right now," Jane whispers softly. "That's not today, nor even likely to be tomorrow, so don't think about it." He looks out the window for a few moments before looking back at me. "Do you know why I wasn't at CBI today?" he asks happily in his usual flip-flop way of changing topics.

I just shake my head and say, "Not a clue."

"Well," he draws out dramatically, "I was with one of those lives you've saved."

My face must be a picture of confusion as I ask, "What?" because Jane just laughs and says, "One of the lives you've saved. Day before yesterday ring any bells?"

The little 4 year-old girl. My heart plummets as I say, "Yeah, I saved her life. A lifetime in a vegetative state, and that's only if she isn't brain-dead. What was the point?"

I should have known he would throw my own words back at me. "Because all human life is precious." He gives a wide grin and continues, "So, ask me why I'm smiling?"

Not having the heart to return his grin in even the smallest way, I say flatly, "Why are you smiling, Jane?"

"Because that little life you saved–the one you gave up on–is going to be okay," he says as his normally mega-watt grin goes supernova. "They ran the EEG test this morning, and her readings came out better than anyone could have hoped for. She started responding to stimuli this afternoon. And just about an hour before I came here, she opened her eyes. Her grandparents were there, and she responded to them. She recognized them! The doctors say that she might need a little physiotherapy as her right side is a little weak, but they expect her to do just fine. You did good work, Dr. Lisbon!"

I looked away from him and toward the early light of dawn that was just beginning to shine over the horizon. I could feel the tears in the back of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. She was going to be okay. It seems that even this nightmare of a week has ended, and the day is dawned again. A soft smile covers my face as I turn to thank Jane for everything he has done for me tonight, only to find his eyes are closed and he is truly asleep. He's had just as long a week as the rest of us.

I drape the afghan across both our laps. Even though my bed would be more comfortable and we are both likely to wake with cricks in our necks, I settle down for the morning and let my eyes drift closed to follow my friend and favorite nightmare into whatever dreams may come.