Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist.
Excuse: This isn't betaed in any way, so please tell me about any mistakes in language as well as content.
The sun was shining bright from the clear blue sky. There was not a cloud in sight and birds were singing in the trees. It was a perfect Californian day. Patrick Jane was sitting in the middle of the lawn and wanted nothing more than for all of this to end. For the misleading surroundings to disappear, for his conscience to stop telling him what he had done and for his aching heart to finally cease its beating.
Danny's words still rang in his ears. 'Guilt is for marks. You know that, right?' And Patrick had nodded. 'Yeah.' As if he could ever even attempt to believe that, much less feel it. And how could Danny mean them when he himself had stated so clearly what he thought of the man who had basically killed his sister and niece only hours ago?
Guilt would always be a part of him now. On most days he had it under control, this everlasting, all-consuming feeling that ate at him constantly, rarely ever allowing him any rest. But not right now. Right now it cost him all he had to keep breathing, to force himself to inhale and exhale and not let himself be suffocated by the sight before him.
The two tombstones looked so innocent. And in their innocence they were the most accusing thing imaginable. They were worse than the bloody smiley watching over his sleep. They were condemning.
Angela Ruskin Jane. Charlotte Anne Jane. He had been filled with love and pride every time he had used those names. A lifetime ago. Now, he could barely think them, let alone say them out loud. It hurt too much. They reminded him too forceful of what he had not just lost but destroyed himself. What he had thrown away in sheer arrogance because he had underestimated his adversary. Because he had thought himself oh so clever.
There would never come a day on which he wouldn't hate himself to the point of being mentally ill. But he had it under control. Usually. He knew how to keep himself in check, how to keep going, how to even put on a cheery facade. He had found the key not to recovery but to survival. Revenge. The burning desire to catch the beast who had taken the two most important lives on this earth. To catch it and to make it pay. That purpose was all he lived for and he knew it. But no one else had to. They all knew he was aiming for it, there was no avoiding that, but no one was aware of exactly how paramount this motive was to him.
He had perfected the charade and was grimly proud about how fast he had learned to fool everybody. Except Lisbon, that was. It almost worried him how good the tiny agent had gotten at seeing through him. Not that he would ever admit to that, but it was a fact that he needed to watch out when he was around her.
He didn't know what to make of it. He didn't want anybody to get close to him. But he increasingly realised how much he was failing at that. He had started to genuinely care for the team a long while ago but nonetheless was he still trying to keep them at a safe distance. Because what he had said to Teresa was true. Everyone who came close to him inevitably got hurt. And he had done enough damage already, he couldn't cause any more. Because if he did, he knew it would be too much. He had managed coming back from the brink of insanity once, there would be no second time. So he had decided to keep everybody as far away from him as possible. Solitude was a faithful friend.
But the loneliness had started nagging at him and slowly but surely had he found himself surrounded by people again. They had crept up on him without him even noticing. When he had realised he had let it happen it had been too late already. There had been no getting away from them anymore. So he had but one choice. Protect them at all cost.
And he did, in a covert, almost secret kind of way. He knew he seemed reckless, foolish even, but that was just fine with him. Should everyone think he was a maniac. In fact, that's what he was. But he always made a point of him being the endangered one when danger was inevitable and he had any say in the matter. Although he didn't think anyone noticed that.
Which, again, was just fine with him. He certainly wasn't a hero, even less of a martyr, and he didn't want anyone to think of him as such. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve any thanks or praise, he never again would. All he could do was try to redeem himself bit by bit. And even that he would never fully manage. He didn't even aim for it. It was just the one thing that kept him going, the only thing in his life that still made sense. So he would do his best at it, would give it anything he had because for him, there was nothing to lose anymore. He had lost everything in one night and he wasn't worthy of getting anything good in his life ever again.
The two stones in front of him reminded him of that in a way even more painful than he was used to. He knew why he had never come here before. It pushed him to close to the edge of what he was able to take without finally breaking.
He looked at the beloved names one last time, trying to relive at least a faint echo of the joy they had once brought him.
He couldn't.
He got up and followed Danny away from the graveyard, back to what was his life now.
A/N: Originally, I intended to just watch the next episode, but the end of 03x02 Cackle-Bladder Blood threw me into a flurry of writing. And yeah, well, this is what I came up with. Since Patrick Jane is just about the most complex and difficult-to-write character I ever came across, I'm absolutely unsure about this. So please, tell me what you think. Did I capture him?
And in case I managed to mention anything not-canon (although I'm fairly sure I didn't): Sorry, I didn't know better, still haven't seen more than those first two seasons plus the beginning of season three :-)