Three Bullets, Three Victims
Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
*A/N* It's so sad, I'm sorry. I really, really am. And I am even more sorry I'm satisfied with it. I'm also sorry for the Doctor Who reference in the text and for the Sherlock reference in the title. I'm sorry about a lot of things today, call me the Tenth Doctor.
Anyway, I hope you still like it.
Dedicated entirely to LetMeWalkTheEarthWithYou, I wrote this down for you and actually, I might just blame it all on you. And your perfect stories.
The trigger felt very cold underneath his finger, icy. Like his head, like his heart. Millions of pictures, sounds and smells surrounded him, and even though he knew they were merely memories, they felt just as real as the metal under his forefinger.
The way Angela's eyes gleamed when she smiled at him, that first day, that first time he ever made her smile. His father's face, when he told him he'd leave, forever. Thanks for nothing. Their daughter's first scream, his wife's tired face lit up with joy when she held Charlotte in her arms. The soft piano chords echoing through the house, Charlotte's proud smile when she was playing for him. The sound of his wife, singing their little angel to sleep.
Roses and lavender, soap, strawberries and cream.
Scarlet and white, a cruel smile and her empty, empty eyes. Blond curls soaked with blood and the echo of gleeful laughter, the ghost of his darling girl's beaming smile.
The metal stench of blood and the taste of salt.
White walls, voices talking, senseless words. Meaningless faces. Sophie Miller, trying to wake him up from the nightmare.
Disinfectant.
Dark waves, kind emerald eyes, tired even then. Saint Teresa. Lectures, fights and reluctant praise.
The comforting smell of leather and the noise of the bullpen.
Running, bullets, screams. Photographs pinned to a board, crimson smileys and finally faces, seven men staring down on his dreams. Lisbon smiling down at him while he was lying in yet another hospital bed.
Gun powder, tea and vanilla ice cream.
Lisbon, yelling at him again, over the phone. Calls and texts. Her beautiful eyes, sorrowful and furious. The agonizing sound of her misery, crying herself to sleep. Her soft skin inches away from his fingertips, never to touch.
In the fraction of a second, while it all flashed in front of his eyes, every muscle in his body aware of what he was doing, he pulled the trigger.
A bullet in his stomach, that's for my wife.
Another a little deeper, that's for my girl, I hope it gives you a taste of what you did to me.
For a minute or two, he relished in his screams, it didn't heal his wounds but he had never expected that. It felt good, though. Wrong, but oh so good.
A third bullet. Right between the eyes.
And that's for Teresa.
The body thumped to the floor and Jane let out a shaky breath.
So he had defeated the devil. Crimson rivers spread out over the floor and that sickening smell filled the air once more. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds as they flooded towards his feet, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
There was one last bullet in that gun, growing warm and heavy in his hand, and it was about time it reached its destination.
Tick, tock, goes the clock, and all the years, they fly
Ten years. The same smell, the same colors. Full circle, at long last.
He pressed the gun to his temple.
Oddly enough, it was not Angela he was thinking of. Not even Charlotte.
It was ten years too late, and she'd never know, but for once his thoughts belonged entirely to Teresa Lisbon.
Who'd never know that he would have loved her, worshipped her and never let her go, had he been free.
But they had held him too tightly, all these years. His wife, his child, Red John, and maybe hell itself.
For that last second, he was all hers.
Forgive me, Teresa.
Even two years later she was still standing in front of that grave. She signed forms, she led investigations, she interrogated witnesses, she cuffed suspects and arrested criminals, but that was in her head. In reality, that lonely white rose was still falling, her unshed tears still veiling that open grave, Grace still sobbing behind her.
Or was it the other way around?
When the drug dealer raised his gun in the heat over the streets of Sacramento, she was almost relieved.
They were alone, her and that young thing fresh from the academy. Garner. She liked him, his kind, calm voice and his warm hazel eyes. Saving that gentle twenty-something seemed a good thing to die for.
Saint Teresa's last achievement, she thought as she stepped in front of him, but it wasn't bitterness. More like a flicker of black humor.
And of course, Jane was the last thing on her mind, how else could it have been?
The rose finally reached the ebony coffin, and a lonely tear dripped from her eyelashes, splashing on the polished wood. Scattering tiny little diamonds over it.
Meet you in hell, Patrick.
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