Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist, and will therefore cry myself to sleep tonight.

The age

of man

is over

The darkness

comes

at dawn.

These lessons

that

we've learned

here

have only

just

begun.

"Kings & Queens" by 30 Seconds to Mars

It occurred to Lisbon once, and only once. She had been at home one late evening, washing dishes, with the volume turned up on the television in her living room. She only ever watched the news (and sometimes, a laughable B-movie on the science fiction channel). She had just polished off the last coffee mug when she heard the familiar noise that announced a breaking news bulletin.

She turned her full attention to the television-these news stories just excited her (she knew it was pathetic). A pretty blonde woman in a tailored suit changed her expression to suit the upcoming announcement. She looked absolutely on edge; this was going to be good.

"Now, I've just been informed that a young woman named Patricia Watson has been found dead in her home this evening. A statement regarding the full extent of her injuries is not being released at this time, but she is reported to have been bound and stabbed to death." Lisbon (thanks to Jane, surely) noticed that the woman's eyes were focused hard on the prompt in front of her. She apparently was not the sort of person who enjoyed morbid details the way Lisbon did.

"Authorities report that the victim was also involved in a suspicious incident earlier this afternoon, during which she approached a uniformed police officer and claimed to have a stalker. The policeman saw that she was distraught and offered to drive her home, but the victim declined without explanation or a description of the person she believed was following her. The officer is believed to be the last person to see her alive."

It was clear to Lisbon that the blonde woman agreed with the senior agent in thinking that the policeman, who ever he had been, should have insisted upon accompanying the woman to her residence, or at least gotten a good description of the creep who probably killed her. That was standard procedure when it came to stalkers. A picture of the victim appeared on the screen. She was about Lisbon's size, with thin lips and small brown eyes. Her hair was dark brown, or maybe black. Lisbon circled the island in her kitchen and approached the screen, trying to get a better look.

That was when it occurred to her (once and only once) that she really should invest in some kind of security system. She was dangerous with her gun and could hold her own with her fists for a while, but she tired easily and if her attacker was much stronger than her or caught her without her weapon, she would be overcome-just like the woman on the screen. She didn't care much for dogs, so that was out. She could change the locks, but even rebellious teenagers could pick them if they so desired.

Her refrigerator made a loud noise as the ice machine hummed to life, and Lisbon set to putting her clean dishes away. She found a spot on one that she had missed, and she scrubbed it clean. She did not think about her security again.

Friday

A few weeks later, Lisbon had just walked in the door from work and her phone was ringing. She had no idea who could be calling her-had she left something at the office? The agent dropped her purse on her sofa and picked her phone up from the coffee table.

"This is Lisbon," she said, and headed to her bedroom.

"Oh hey, stranger!" Jane replied, and Lisbon could even hear his annoyingly charming smile.

"What do you want, Jane?" she asked, sinking down on her bed.

"Well, I just wanted to ask you something. It's not very important. I mean, it's important enough that I did need to call you, I swear. And please don't undress while we're on the phone, it's a little disturbing." She ignored him and undressed distractedly-she had so much paperwork to do in the morning, thanks to Patrick Jane. There were really some days when she had to wonder if she should shoot him. She was risking carpal tunnel as it was.

"What's so important that it couldn't wait until Monday?"

She tossed her clothes into the hamper and grabbed a robe from her closet. It was the soft, pink, fluffy one that she had gotten from Jane as a birthday gift to "bring a little colour" to her life.

"I would like you to return my copy of Wuthering Heights. See, it's not really mine-it's Cho's-I might have told you it was mine, though. That's not vital information."

"This whole phone call is seeming pretty non-vital to me." She padded back to the kitchen to pour herself a single glass of dark, red wine.

"Well, it is. I really, really need it back. Cho keeps asking me about it. It's quite annoying."

"Oh, I can imagine." Taking a sip of her wine, she walked across the hall to her white and black bathroom, plain except for the crown moulding, just how she wanted it. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and marveled at how much the robe stood out against everything else in the room.

"Lisbon, are you even going to remember this conversation tomorrow?"

Lisbon pulled back the shower curtain and twisted the faucet until steamy water poured down into the deep tub.

"What do you mean by that?"

"The liquor. Margarita, I'm thinking."

"It's red wine!"

"There's still alcohol in it."

"Not enough to matter."

"So why not just drink tea? If it's relaxation and not the buzz you're after, tea is a much better choice."

"I don't like tea, Jane. You like tea. I like coffee, you like tea. Say it with me."

"Do I hear water running? Are you taking a bath? I asked you not to undress whilst speaking with me! But the robe's nice, huh?"

"Shut up, Jane."

"You're really no fun when you're liquored up, Lisbon."

"That's because I can tolerate you even less when I'm drinking, Jane. Goodnight."

"Have a nice bath, and don't forget that book, or Cho will-" Beep.

She sat along the edge of her bathtub and ran her fingers through the water until it was full, all the while thinking about silly things, a welcome change from the atmosphere of her work place.

She took off her robe and hung it on the bathroom door, then slowly stepped into the hot water. Her skin flushed red immediately, but she liked it that way. Leaning her head back against the tiled shower wall, glass of wine in hand.

Jane would probably hate this bathroom. His is probably orange and lime green, or something like that.

Lisbon stopped herself. Why, oh why, was she thinking about the color of Jane's bathroom? While in the tub, no less?

Because you're naked and lonely. Lifting the full glass of wine to her lips, she chuckled under her breath. And you can't hold your liquor.

It was most probable then that the noise she heard was real, but she wished and prayed that she had only imagined it. She absolutely hated being disturbed when she was so relaxed. She willed the noise to be something from the television. But then, she had never turned it on.

She sank down in the tub so that her lips were level with the water, and exhaled deeply, watching the ripples float down toward her toes. Then she hauled herself away from the warmth of her bath and reached for her robe. In the last second before her fingers made contact with the fuzzy material, she noticed two dark shadows inside the crack at the bottom of her bathroom door. And still, Lisbon did not think of her security. Strangely enough, she thought about her fear of being seen naked and exposed.

In less than ten seconds, the door had exploded into the room, its handle smashing into the white wall. Lisbon had grasped her robe, clutched it to her chest and raised an arm to defend her head from a blow. Her wrist was choked by hot, gloved fingers, twisted in such a way that she fell to the ground in a spasm of pain. Thinking quickly, she smashed her elbow into her attacker's shoe. He grunted in pain, then laughed as he kicked her hard in the face. Lisbon's body flew back against the side of her tub-her glass of wine shattered, spilling its dark contents inside her bath water, onto her floor, and down her back. She would have been furious at the mess, but somehow she was losing consciousness. She thought that, quite possibly, she felt those steaming, evil hands clutched around her throat. Something freezing and curiously shiny sliced into her abdomen.

And the evening had been going so well.

"Worry not, Agent Lisbon. I will be sure to leave a message for our dear friend, Mr. Jane. I sincerely apologize for my behavior, but I find myself in need of your assistance..."

Lisbon's vision clouded as Red John painted a familiar face onto the white wall of canvas.

Monday

Hightower marched her superbly dressed person into the bullpen at precisely 8 a.m., looking grim and serious as ever. Rigsby, Van Pelt and Cho looked at her intensely. Something was different about her face this time. Even Jane sat up on his couch, eyeing her curiously.

"I've just received word that a woman in our area was attacked last night. Before I tell you anything more, I want you to remember that we are professionals. Nothing, no matter how grisly or personal, can affect the way we handle a case. I want you all to...remember why we're doing this." Hightower paused, and before anyone else even noticed, Jane asked exactly the wrong question.

"Where is Lisbon? She's usually very punctual. And isn't she supposed to be the one telling us to behave?" Van Pelt quirked an odd smile and Rigsby broke into a wide grin. Cho looked pensive. But Jane got the answer he'd been searching for-not Lisbon's whereabouts, but Lisbon's safety. If she had been out sick or simply skipping work, Hightower would have retorted, or fired him, or maybe even shot him.

The most terrifying thing was that she did absolutely nothing. It was all in what she didn't say.

"What's going on?" Van Pelt asked, her brows knitting together. Rigsby stood at full attention. Jane felt lightheaded.

Cho's expression didn't change. He only said, "Lisbon," as though her name was foreign to him. Realization dawned on his face, years after Jane understood. Hightower swallowed.

"It's Red John," she said, but Jane was already running for the elevator.

He had never, ever driven so fast. The Citroen flew down the road at top speed, almost catapulting itself to Teresa Lisbon's home. But to Jane, the journey seemed to take years. Every red light, every stop sign saw him biting his knuckle, pulling at his blond curls, sweating and shaking. And then he was there.

There were several local police cars, an ambulance and yards and yards of yellow caution tape-it screamed "She's dead!" before he even saw a body. Jane already felt something inside him ticking for the last time, like a weary clock-or a bomb-or something else that was at its end.

But he had to see her. One wife, one child-who was Teresa Lisbon to that list? Did she even compare? Surely it wouldn't be as devastating. He could handle it. She was just a colleague...just a sort-of friend...

No, she's so much more than that.

Jane's resolve stiffened his back and he marched forward, ducking beneath the tape, dodging the police (Cho had conveniently showed up and given him clearance), and arriving at Lisbon's front door with a blank mind and a splintered soul.

Like a ghost, he moved through her living room, down the hallway-saw her bedroom, bed still made...turned to another door...and there it was. There was where it had happened. The dark red splashed on the floor, on the bathtub, in the stale water...the leering face on the wall. Even a fuzzy, pink bathrobe, stained with dried blood.

Jane felt a presence behind him-one of the local policemen-and Cho, who eyed the crime scene with the most emotion that Jane had ever seen on his face. Shock and fear...and hope.

Turning around to the dreadful mess before him, he asked the solitary question which was burning in everyone's minds, his voice sounding stronger than he thought it could.

"Where is Teresa Lisbon?"

Criticize me. Ready, set...go.