After too long of a writing break (blame college and a lack of inspiration) I'm no longer lurking in the shadows, my only literary output being essays and reviews. I'm back to begin a series of Mentalist sketches. I've got a couple more sketch ideas floating around in my head, so hopefully I can flesh them out and post them soon. In the meantime, enjoy, and don't forget to review!
Thanks to Iloveplotbunnies for betaing, niggling me to write more, and for being such an awesome friend. :D
Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist or Mary Poppins, or any other trademarked names that may show up in the following one-shot.
Teresa Lisbon entered the floor of the CBI building which housed the Serious Crimes Unit, warily glancing around for any "surprises" left by Patrick Jane—she swore one day that she would enter the bullpen only to be greeted by Jane leading a menagerie of animals. She almost snorted; Jane would make himself the king of the jungle.
However, on this particular day; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Van Pelt was tracking a minor lead in a day-old case, Cho was reading a book, and Rigsby was trying to distract Cho by attempting to do a magic trick that Jane had taught him a few days prior. "Normalcy" was a welcomed change to Lisbon, as the CBI didn't get much after the impish consultant with a nose like a bloodhound's when it came to trouble, joined the team.
But Lisbon noticed that there was no excited cry of "Lisbon!" reaching her ears, no second convenience store coffee mug thrust into her hands to take the place of the nearly empty one she had grabbed before leaving, no rambunctious noise, no cries of alarm….
In short, no Jane.
"Morning," Lisbon said to her team. "Has anyone seen Jane?" Van Pelt silently pointed to Jane's customary couch, where, if she squinted, Lisbon could see a small blond curl peeking over the armrest. She approached the couch carefully, not knowing if Jane would mimic a jack-in-the-box and pop up suddenly without any warning. "Jane?"
Her consultant's face was buried in the corner of the couch, nestled in between the armrest and the back of the couch. He made some incoherent noise, and she tried again. "Jane?"
The man in question rolled over slowly, as if in excruciating pain, and his normally cheerful face was half red from being smushed into the couch, with beads of sweat clinging to his skin. He squinted his eyes and peered up at her. She was reminded of the time he'd lost his sight and had looked at her in much the same way before trying to pull a fast one on her. This time, she needn't have worried, because Jane was too incoherent to rise to his usual level of impishness—although he still had a few tricks up his sleeves.
"'Lo, Lisbon," he managed to croak in a pitiful voice.
The woman in question quirked an eyebrow, not quite believing Jane's display. For all she knew, he could have employed a hot water bottle to get that feverish look, and she knew the man could look unhappy anywhere—even with an adoring audience—if it suited him. However, when he didn't follow up his pitiful greeting with a crack of some kind, she began to wonder if he really was sick. Her mother hen streak revealed itself again as she put a practiced hand to his forehead. It really was burning up. She gently asked him to open his eyes a little more, and found glassy, dazed orbs staring back at her instead of a witty, mischievous blue gaze. The lack of spark and spunk in his eyes confirmed that Jane wasn't well. "Jane, you're burning up," she said. "Let's take your temperature." Lisbon waited for him to respond, expecting a trademark wisecrack designed to push her buttons. Knowing Jane for so long had made her a relatively accurate judge of whether he'd offer a snarky comeback or not, and had also given her an idea of what he might say. She was expecting him to say something about him being a "hunk of burning love," but when all she got was a grunt and Jane clamping his mouth shut tight, she knew the man needed swift attention. A voice in the back of her mind said she needed some attention as well, for pairing Jane with the phrase "hunk of burning love."
Twenty minutes later, Lisbon was driving Jane back to her house to recuperate. When the thermometer had registered Jane as having a 101 degree fever, she knew she needed to get him away from the CBI offices, both to shield others from catching whatever he had, and to keep him from retreating to his attic hideaway after hours—she was certain that the dreary and damp conditions in his Jane cave had something to do with his illness. After stopping at a local grocery store to pick up some medicine and soup for Jane, Lisbon and her sick consultant arrived at her house.
She ushered him in and settled him on the couch with a huge blanket, then made him a pot of tea and readied the medicine. "Jane, the store was all out of adult-strength cold and flu medicine, so I had to buy the children's kind. But your mental age is about five, anyway, so it should still work."
She was surprised when a croaky voice answered her, a bit put out by her suggestion.
"Lisbon, I am smarter than a kindergartener, you know," he huffed—comically, since he was snorting and coughing at the same time.
"Yes, Jane, you're much smarter than a pack of kindergarteners. But that doesn't mean you don't act like one. You get into more scrapes than the Little Rascals did, and you're only one supposedly-grown man!"
He perked up a little at Lisbon's concession to his intelligence, but then frowned a bit at her insistence that he behaved like a bunch of unruly children. "I still have better hair than Alfalfa, though," he huffed, pursing his lips.
Lisbon was inclined to agree with that statement, but not wanting to open that can of worms—or not wanting to acknowledge the implications—she just shook her head and brought Jane his now-steeped tea, the medicine, and a huge spoon. She poured some of the liquid in the spoon, and offered it to Jane. He merely opened his mouth wide, so that Lisbon rolled her eyes and fed him the spoonful. She was pouring another when she was interrupted by Jane's whine—"What, no spoonful of sugar, Lisbon? What happened to your Mother Teresa instincts?"
"A spoonful of sugar?" Lisbon asked, flabbergasted by the apparent randomness of Jane's question.
"Yes," Jane said, nodding his head like a little boy to further confirm the statement. "You know, Lisbon, 'A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down, medicine go dooowwwnn'-he lowered his voice to Darth Vader proportions—'in the most delightful way.'" He ended his impromptu performance with a delightful grin.
It was going to be a long afternoon, Lisbon thought. She got him a spoonful of sugar—more to stifle his singing than anything else—but as soon as he'd swallowed, he was back to showcasing his wit.
"You would make a fantastic Mary Poppins, Lisbon," Jane suddenly mentioned, a dreamy smile on his face.
"What, Jane?" Lisbon was nonplussed.
"I said you'd make a fantastic Mary Poppins, Lisbon. You're ," Jane grinned. "You don't put up with anyone's crap, but you're not quite as straight-laced as you look. You need to let your hair down more, have fun. Dance with the penguins. Fly a kite."
"The penguins, Jane?" Lisbon questioned, eyebrow rising at his inane babbling.
"Yes, of course, Lisbon. Don't you remember the scene where Bert and Mary sang "" with the penguin waiters? They looked so smart in their natural suits."
"Jane, only you would appreciate the penguins' "suits". I'm guessing you're Bert in this farfetched scenario?"
"Yes. Although I don't think I'd work as a chimney sweep. Too drafty," Jane mused. "And I'd get a costume change as well. Rainbow stripes don't look good on me."
Lisbon tried to stifle a smirk at the thought of Jane in rainbow stripes, but it didn't work.
"Ah, see? I knew I could put a smile on your face. You deserve it, for putting up with me this afternoon, and for three years previous." His face grew serious. "Just don't fly away via an umbrella anytime soon, Lisbon. We need you here." His eyelids grew droopy, as the medicine took effect. He suddenly looked very vulnerable, vibrant façade stripped away to reveal a tired man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. As he drifted off to sleep—a real sleep, not the feigned sleep he faked on the CBI couch—she briefly squeezed his shoulder and whispered quietly.
"Wouldn't think of it, Jane."