Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist or any of the related characters
A/N: Longest one-shot I've ever written. Ever. I quite like it, but I'm still not totally sure about it. Written for a contest at the Jisbon-Army on deviantART. The contest is to write a fanfic or create a piece of art based on a song (obviously the fanfic/art needs to be Jisbon based). This was based on/inspired by A Better Nothing by Lostprophets (hence the title).
**WARNING: CONTAINS CHARACTER DEATH** - Don't like? Don't read.
Enjoy. Reviews and crits are welcomed as always. Also feel free to ask questions.
There's something empty about this. I think as I walk into the bullpen. My team are there, of course. Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt. But not him. It's been almost a week now and it still hasn't sunk in. I know they're still trying to process it themselves, I can see it in their faces as we try to avoid the subject. I also know they're worried about how I'm coping. I worry about them too. We're a close knit team here. Like a family. He helped bring us together, helped us become the strong unit we are now. Everything I do reminds me of him in some way. I can't so much as breathe without thinking about him. When I lie down to go to bed at night I see him lying there on the couch. When I see someone smile, or try to smile myself I see his cheeky grin lighting up his otherwise sombre face. When I try to tell a joke I think about all the times he played jokes on me and his witty comments. I snap myself out of my thoughts. My team are looking up at me expectantly, watching me intently. It reminds me of when we used to sit and listen to his schemes and I fight to hold back the tears threatening to burst through my steady, determined disguise. Hold yourself together Teresa. You have to be strong, for them. For him. Outside I look strong, capable, unshaken. But inside I'm an emotional wreck.
I tell them about our new case and allocate each of them a task as usual. I tell them that talking to the victim's partner will have to wait; he's been away on business and has to fly back in. They nod and following this I leave. Back to my office, where I can let out some of my pent up emotion before getting to work on the case. I close the door behind me and sit down, preparing myself for a stream of tears. But work won't let me have time to myself. Almost as soon as I've sat down there's a knock at the door and it opens. There in the doorway stands my boss, one Madeline Hightower. We've had our differences in the months since she's arrived. Most of which involved her telling me that if I couldn't keep him in line then my job wouldn't last. In this last week she and I haven't clashed at all. I get on with my job and she lets me. She told me to take time off if I needed it. I refused to. I needed distracting. I wonder what she wants with me,
"Agent Lisbon," she begins, "just thought I'd pop by, check everything was okay." I stare and blink, slightly bemused,
"Y-yes everything's fine. We've started working on the case and I'm sure we'll come up with something before long." I force a smile, but she just looks at me,
"You know that's not what I meant Teresa." She sighs and comes in, closing the door behind her,
"I'm coping." I reply unconvincingly. I know she isn't going to buy it, but I hope she does all the same,
"I don't think you are, Teresa." She states matter-of-factly, causing me to flinch mentally, "Why didn't you take some time off like I suggested? Or the rest of your team for that matter." Because I'd have too much time to think about what happened.
"We need to be in work ma'am." I answer, "People need us and we need distracting." She sighs again,
"All right." She replies, still unsatisfied with my response, "Just don't push yourselves too hard. That's an order."
"Yes ma'am."
After Hightower leaves I'm alone again. Just me, my office and my paperwork. That's when I let myself cry. Not streams of tears, just little trickles. Like when a single raindrop hits a pane of glass and slowly weaves its way down. Never any more than that. Not while I'm in the same building as my team. It's easier to hide trickles, wipe them away and pretend they never existed. You can't hide a river behind a facade of solidity and capability. Sooner or later the dam will break and the waters will pour forth. When that happens there's no hope of rebuilding that dam. Trickles can be hidden. That's the way I work. I let the tears roll down my face in trickles when I'm alone. If someone walks in I pretend they were never there and if someone notices I put it down to allergies. I know I shouldn't hide my feelings from my team. They're my friends, my family. But I just can't let them see me like this. I miss him. We all miss him. I correct myself. Come back. Things are so hard without you.
I remember when they told me about what had happened to him. It hit me like a kick in the stomach. At first I denied it. Refused to believe what they told me. No. He would be taken down like that. He was too strong, too determined, too egotistic. I came up with a million different excuses as to why it couldn't have happened. Unfortunately not one of them had prevented it from happening. It was only when I looked at him lying there that it finally hit home. I don't think I'll ever forget that moment. He looked calm and serene, almost as though he were sleeping. But I knew better. Another knock at the door drags me from my thoughts,
"Come in." I tell whoever it is flatly, all emotion drained from my voice. The door opens slowly, reluctantly, and from the corridor emerges Grace Van Pelt,
"Boss, we pulled up some stuff on the victim, she had debt troubles and lots of them. There's more, but it might be better if you saw it all for yourself." I nod absently,
"Okay Van Pelt, I'll come and check it out. " I tell her, lifting myself wearily from my seat,
"Boss, are you okay?" she asks, worriedly, "You look awful." I consider making a joke of it, like Jane would, but I don't have the energy,
"I haven't been sleeping well." I tell her sincerely, "But I'm fine, really."
"It wasn't your fault." She says. I stop dead. It's the first time my thoughts have been voiced out loud. Before I can stop it a stray tear trickles down my face. She gasps, "Oh God, I'm so sorry!" she says, flustered. I force a smile,
"It's okay." I reply. In a way it is. Now that it has been said out loud, I don't feel as weighed down by it. But I'm not ready to believe what she's telling me. I still feel like it was somehow my fault. It wasn't your fault. It was an accident. No one could have predicted it. I rationalise with myself, But I could have stopped him from leaving. I could have prevented it.
Later, when we finish up for the day, I go to the hospital. I've been here every day since the accident, and every time they tell me the same. Still I keep coming, hoping that somehow my presence will wake him. Praying that he doesn't slip away from us. From me. We need him. But above all I need him. I check in at the reception desk, they know me well now, so they don't have to ask for my name. They tell me the room number again. Though I know it clearly now. Room 13. I don't think irony will ever cease to amaze me. It rears its ugly head at the most inappropriate moments. Sighing, I walk to his room, mentally preparing myself for what I'm about to see. No matter how many times I see him like this I don't think the shock upon walking into that room will ever go away. I stop at the door and place my hand on the handle. I'm already shaking as I push the door open slowly. I hear the sound of the machines beeping before I see them. Through the small gap I can see the end of the bed. As the gap widens I see him. Wires and tubes sticking into him, machines hooked up to him. Tears roll down my face as I step into the room. He looks fragile, breakable like a china doll. But he also looks more serene now than he ever has. If I didn't know better I'd have though him merely sleeping. But, of course, I do know better. He's not just sleeping. He's in a coma. The doctors rate his chances of waking at slim to none. But I can hope. I can wish. Something in my head tells me that he'll pull through, he's strong. Something in my heart tells me different. Something in my heart tells me he'll never wake up.
I sit in the chair next to his bed and hold his hand and talk to him, as though he's just sitting down next to me. Sometimes I imagine how he would respond, grinning cheekily. I stroke his hand with my thumb,
"We miss you Jane." I start softly, "It feels empty without you, though your ego will be glad to know that cases aren't being closed as quickly without you." I laugh weakly. Then I start to tell him about how Hightower has gone soft on me since he's been stuck in here. I imagine him chuckling at this, "God damn it Jane, I'm falling apart!" I snap suddenly as the dam breaks and my tears roll down my face in rivers, "You were always there when I needed you. You always knew how to make me smile. You can't just up and die now! " I bury my face in the bed sheets, my body wracked with sobs, "I could have stopped this from happening." I say, my voice muffled by the sheets, "I shouldn't have shouted at you. I shouldn't have let you drive off." I remember what Van Pelt said to me earlier and imagine him saying something similar, "I'm so sorry..."
I sit there silently for a while, thinking about the day of the accident. I got into a heated argument with him while we were out questioning suspects for a case. He had come up with another ridiculous scheme to lure out the killer. But this time someone would have more than likely been killed, not only that but it was likely to be one of my team. He'd crossed the line. So I snapped and shouted at him. We argued intensely for what seemed like hours before he decided to drive off angrily. The last words we had exchanged were hateful and cruel. A fresh stream of tears begins to flow down my face,
"I didn't mean the things I said about you Jane. I don't hate you. I could never hate you, no matter how hard I try." I tell him, "I love you Patrick Jane. I always have and I always will." Then I kiss his forehead and stroke his face with my thumb, "Thank you for everything Jane." I say as I get up and leave. I doubt I'll see him again. Something tells me his time is up. At least then he'll be with his wife and child at last. I think. Somehow that thought doesn't even begin to comfort me.
The next day, and I'm feeling emptier than ever. I didn't sleep at all last night and it's showing. I can't be bothered to try and hide it this time. The team all exchange worried glances as I walk in to the bullpen. I don't blame them. I must look like the living dead by now. Dead. Is he dead? I wonder, thinking of how fragile he looked with all those machines hooked up to him. I bite my lip,
"Boss?" Rigsby asks worriedly, "Are you okay?" My disguise fails in an instant. I shake my head,
"No." I admit, my voice almost a whisper. I'm shaking now as I find my way to the sofa, his sofa, and sit down, "I'm sorry... I can't keep this up..."
"You don't have to apologise." Cho says, his voice rippling with an unusual emotion. He's usually so straight and matter-of-fact that I forget emotions can affect his voice too. Van Pelt nods in agreement,
"It's okay to let your emotions out." She murmurs, "You don't have to act tough for us, boss." I thank them in a nearly inaudible mumble before letting the tears roll down my face and voicing the thought that's been bothering me all night. Nagging and preying on my mind,
"I don't think he's going to make it."
They stare at me in disbelief. I've never given up on him before. Never. But I can't deceive myself anymore. I can't keep pretending that he's invincible. He's not - no one is,
"I don't think he's going to make it." I say again staring at the floor and, as if on cue Hightower walks in, barely noticeable tear streaks down her solemn face,
"Agents." She says taking a deep breath, "I'm afraid I have some bad news." The team look up at her, worry dancing about their eyes; I already know what she's going to say, "You all know of your colleague's accident..." She stresses the word accident slightly, "I'm sorry... Patrick Jane passed away this morning..." Their faces drop, "I'm sorry." She says again, turning around and walking out of the room to let us process the news.
The day of the funeral. It's a small affair, only the team, Hightower and some old friends of his that I've never met before. They all leave long before me, though the team and Hightower make sure to ask if I'm okay first. I shrug it off, 'of course I'm okay'. They don't seem convinced, but they nod and leave, out of courtesy. I force a smile back, 'don't worry about me'. Then I sit there at the headstone. I run my fingers along the grooves of the words; Patrick Jane, it reads, Loyal Friend, Loving Husband and Caring Father. Rest In Peace. I smile a little,
"I hope you're with them now Patrick." I say, my words directed at the headstone as a stray tear trickles down my face, "But truthfully, I wish you were still here with us." I hastily wipe the tear away and stand up. I begin to walk away, stopping and turning back just before I get to the cemetery gates, "Rest in peace." I murmur softly as I leave, "May we meet again."