A/N I'm guessing there have been a few story tags for this episode, but i've tried to avoid them until i finally got this thing out my head and onto paper/screen.
Patrick rounded the corner, his face fixed and determined as he continued his chase. Then he saw him, saw the Monster stumble and fall to the ground near the edge of the park's small lake, clutching the dark sticky stain on his t-shirt.
Slowing to a steady walk, Patrick's breathing also became slower, deeper, as he prepared himself for what was to come.
An unexpected stillness crept over him for a time, every ounce of his body and mind focused only on the figure groaning on the ground ahead of him. He no longer heard the sound of children in the playground a few metres away; he didn't feel his shirt, damp with sweat, sticking to his back, nor did he feel his hand which still gripped the gun he had fired minutes earlier.
There was only the Monster, whose long-worn mask of humanity in the form of McAllister now torn apart, his real self finally laid bare. And yet, Patrick puzzled, this true self was not some grotesque, absurd form, oozing red mist from every pore.
(would it have made this easier if he had been?)
He was just a pathetic, wretched man lying writhing in pain in front of him.
This revelation momentarily threatened to puncture Patrick's resolve to rid himself and the rest of his victims of this curse. Was Lisbon right, should Red John be caught and tried in court, made to live a lifetime behind bars? No, no, NO, even the idea of this beast being allowed to continue breathing left Patrick nauseous and utterly enraged at his own, albeit fleeting, self-doubt. He had spent half a lifetime uncovering the unquestionable evil that lay in the heart – or whatever passed for a heart - of this Monster. His time had come.
Kicking the phone out of his reach, Patrick knelt over him, stopping him from attempting any escape. Although given the ever-expanding red stain the Monster still clutched at, that would be far from easy.
Patrick now heard words spill from the Monster, muffled through the sound of his own breathing. He was pleading with Patrick, bargaining for his life. This attempt at self-preservation only further ignited the fury inside Patrick; the audacity – or was it stupidity? – of this animal for thinking for one second that this could end in any way other than his death.
An odd choking sound reached Patrick's ears, before he realised his free hand was now firmly gripping the neck of the beast. He startled himself by a sudden desperate need to know if this creature felt any kind of remorse for ripping his family from him so violently all those years ago, for turning his existence into a tortured hell of guilt, anger and pain. His grip of the Monster tightened as he got his reply, and any comfort he thought he would feel in the answer disappeared almost instantly.
He forced what strength he had left into his grip on the body beneath him.
...
As the Monster quietened and stilled, a ferocious tsunami of emotions surged through Patrick, shaking open long-closed doors in his memory palace, flooding his thoughts with so many memories
...[Angela and Charlotte's favourite piano piece]...
he had shut away
...[a forgotten pink tassled tricycle]...
for the sake of what sanity
...[strawberries and cream]...
he'd had left.
The relief he felt as he realised he had succeeded in what he had set out to do, was quickly pushed aside by the familiar guilt and anger which had plagued him for so long... This was it, wasn't it? This was the moment he had sought for over ten years, the moment when he should be feeling some long-overdue tranquillity, some sense of freedom. But this? This was not freedom he felt. And he desperately needed it.
He became aware once more of the heavy metal object still gripped in his other hand. His breathing calmed. A cold chill embraced him.
...[a way out?]...
... [eternal peace]...
As he looked at the gun, the sun glinted off the grey steel ...
...[sun]...[Lisbon]...
[Lisbon]...[Lisbon]...
His memory palace shook again, like a billion synapses firing over and over again in his head. This time, however, the memories rushed in from a different part of the palace, from airy rooms with large windows which could fill those rooms with light and warmth if he would only let them.
He stood up slowly, legs still a little shaky. He picked up the discarded phone.
"Lisbon, it's over, it's done."
Even though she didn't (or couldn't, he guessed) pick up, a gradual heat now started to thaw the chill that had threatened to take hold of him. He allowed his head to fill with wonderful memories of Lisbon; her childish pout when he'd walked in on her in that pink bridesmaid's dress... her genuine glee when she'd discovered the birthday pony in her office... the way she'd hugged him, not so long ago, standing on the bluff on the way to Malibu...
Perhaps it was for the best she didn't pick up, how could he say goodbye?
"Just want you to know I'm OK. I'm gonna miss you." His voice cracked slightly on those last few words.
He hoped he would have the chance some day to tell her all the things he couldn't tell her right then; that he cherished every moment he'd had with her, that she had saved him in every way imaginable, that he wouldn't be totally at peace until he knew she had found some peace of her own.
He threw away the phone and ran. As he did, he could at last feel the heat of the sun on his face again, hear the innocent laughter of the children playing as he passed by.
A/N Hope you like it, would love to hear your thoughts either way (be gentle!)
The end