A/N: Ok…Right, this is my very first Fan Fiction that I have written, and I would just really quickly like to say a few words.

A massive thank you to Wldwmn, TeresaAmeliaJane and xxmentalistxxspooksxx for being such amazing people and for being so immensely nice to me! (This story is pretty much dedicated to them, I think :D)

Please, be nice, because as I said before, this is the very first time I've done this, and admittedly, I'm pretty nervous! Please feel free to leave me some constructive criticism, obviously, and reviews are VERY much appreciated! Anyone who reviews gets a virtual cookie! :D

I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! I had a whale of a time, as it gave me a great excuse to make myself a cup of hot chocolate!

Ok, that's pretty much it. I apologise, I'll stop blabbering now! Oops! I almost forgot!

Disclaimer: I do not, and probably never will, own The Mentalist. All the characters belong to the genius that is Bruno Heller. If I did own it, believe me, Jisbon would've happened by now…

Lisbon was thrown forward by the strong push of the hand on her shoulder. The momentum sent her crashing into the opposing wall, and she let out a strangled cry as the vice-like fist put an ungodly amount of pressure on her throat. She gasped for much needed oxygen as she was spun round. Their eyes bore into each other, hers trying to convey as little of the growing terror inside her as possible. An overwhelming urge to both cry and throw up washed over her as a vile stench of oil and alcohol wafted through the little space between them.

Unable to get a good glimpse of her attacker's face through his thick, black hood, she gagged and writhed in his grip in an attempt to escape. But he held fast, and no amount of struggling would loosen the monstrous hand around her neck. The holster at her waist was empty, having lost her gun in the earlier tussle against him in the house that stood, old and crumbling, just a few feet above their heads. The coldness of the wall spread through her flimsy dark green jacket and ran icy fingers down her back. Her small form trembled from the exertion of trying to prevent her airways being well and truly crushed, and the unbearable coldness that the freezer room propelled into the atmosphere.

"J…J…Ja-ne…" she gasped, barely loud enough for herself to hear.

"What's that? Crying for lover boy, are we?" he spat harshly in her face.

Just as she began to feel immensely light headed, the pressure ceased and she was flung roughly to the floor. Heavy boots made contact with her stomach. Small shards of shattered glass were showered on her head as a bottle smashed against the wall. Her heart banged loudly on the inside of her chest and the darkness enveloped her.

Patrick Jane walked through the barren hallways of the old mansion. Every now and then, the curtains of moonlight shining through the broken windows would cast eerie and twisted replicas of him onto the opposite wall. His everyday brown leather shoes made contact with the dusty, faded rug that ran the length of the corridor with a muffled thudding sound. The pale purple wall paper could only be described as anaemic, all the vibrant colours lost in time. The ripped velvet curtains had all the life leeched out of them after years in the hot Californian sun. Spiders and rats had long since taken refuge in the abandoned home's creaky, but still strangely welcoming arms. In fact, the general feel of the place was so cliché that Patrick could imagine the suits of armour watching his every move from a dark corner of the room, and the intimidating eyes adorned in the portraits moving to examine him. He couldn't help the shiver that coursed through his body at that precise moment. He hated that feeling of being watched…

Peering into each of the rooms with interest, he took in every detail with his eagle-like eyes. Only the odd lonesome chair would catch his attention. Not anything suspicious. "Hmm…" He let out an almost irritated sound and nudged the corner of a small brown crate with the tip of his shoe. Suddenly, from somewhere below his feet, he heard an almighty bang and then some shuffling noises. At first, he thought it could've been Lisbon scouring the ground floor for more details into the recent murder.

A fifty-something year old pensioner, found dead in his home three days ago, with nothing but a small knife in his back to go on. Inevitably, the CBI had been summoned yet again to 'uncover the killer'. Oh, how reliant people were on the CBI…If only they knew what went on behind the scenes. That their beloved heroes were in fact so imperfect in their own right. Cho had been in Juvenile for goodness knows how long when he was younger. The man had a criminal record! Rigsby and Van Pelt were seemingly normal and at peace with themselves on the outside, but both had been through a hard childhood. Rigsby's abusive father had left a number of incurable scars in his life, and Van Pelt had suffered through a variety of traumas that she evidently did not care to discuss.

Then there was Teresa Lisbon. So hard and selfless on the outside, but yet inside, she was warm and compassionate and had a great deal of self-pride that she rarely showed. Abused by her alcoholic father and left to fend for herself and her three brothers when her mother died, she was undeniably still haunted by her past. Inside that shell that she had built herself years prior to now, there was a fragile young girl, bruised, battered and frightened that one day someone would come and destroy her again. Well, he'd be damned if he let that happen.

The pair of them had been sent to the last place of the victim's reported appearance, and they discovered this. An old, run down, mould-infested hole of nothingness. Not even a scrap of paper to trace a name from. Several minutes into their exploration, Lisbon had suggested that they split up, as you do. Jane had taken the upper levels and Lisbon, the lower levels.

The sudden noise rang through his ear as Jane remained quiet, not daring to move in case he had been mistaken, and the noise he heard was in fact the murderer making a surprise appearance. As he stood there, a statue in the shadows, his mind went into overdrive. It was just then, that he realised: he was on the ground floor. Lisbon was on the next floor down from him. So that meant that Lisbon was in the basement and freezer room. He knew for a fact from a quick scan over when they first arrived, that there was absolutely no heavy equipment in that room. Lisbon was in no way strong enough to make a loud noise like that just by simply hammering on the wall. It took only a matter of seconds for his mind to put all the pieces together. His cerulean eyes widened in horror and his feet were suddenly pounding towards the basement steps. Lisbon was down in the cold basement. And she was not alone…