Author's Note:
This story occurs right after Red Sky In The Morning Season 2, Episode 23. This chapter is after "A Chat with Cho", the same night.

When your world falls apart, some soul searching may be in order.
Just be careful of what you find.

PS: for Anna, because she asked for it.

Red John Reverie
(Night Terrors)

The room, perhaps nine by twelve feet, was a bleak as always. The mattress on the floor, covers rumpled, presided over by the blood red smiley face over, were exactly the same. There was no blood on the floor, now, and Patrick wondered if there was really any blood in his veins. Maybe all that was left was ice water. Ice water kept cold my the memories of happy time and happy people, and the death of those happy times and happy people. Memories of how they had died, perhaps screaming in fear and the ultimate agony of being slowly cut apart. He wondered if their screams included his name and entreaties for him to help them, for him to make the pain stop.

He snorted. If they had, that been utterly useless. His arrogance, his ultimate pride at being able to figure out everything and control everyone had stripped him of his life, his love, his joy, leaving him only a reason of pure hatred to continue. Patrick sat on the mattress and put the bag he'd been carrying next to his right foot, the gun that no one knew he had went by his left foot.

"I wonder if Cho has any idea," he mused. "While that guy can scare me, at times. The secrets I hold should terrify him. " He reached down and took a bottle of cognac out of the plain brown paper bag. He held it up and momentarily enjoyed the color of the evening light through the glass of the bottle. "Courvoisier Cognac Napoleon 750ML," he mumbled. "Hello, Darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again!"

He grimaced and ripped the top off of the bottle with an almost violent motion, held it up, toasted to no one and nothing, turned the bottle up and took several long swallows. His eyes watered, but he did not choke or gasp for breath. "Now that is smooth and gentle," he observed. "I could get used to this stuff." A full moon had risen and was three quarters up in the window, it's eerie light filling the room, almost creating a spotlight effect on the wall's grinning red face.

He turned and saw the face. Reaching down, by his left foot, he grabbed the .380 auto, there, and pulling the hammer back, spun to aim between the eyes the mocking entity. "Red John," he hissed, "when that day comes – and it will – I will not shoot you between the eyes. I will not end it quickly!" He released the hammer on the small hand gun, lowering it to half cock. He aimed lower down the wall. "I'll gut shoot you, you sun of a bitch. I'll gut shoot you and watch you writhe in pain. Then I'll take your knees and elbows. That may cause you a bit of discomfort, but it's all for the greater cause, isn't it? I'll laugh as you truly realize what you are facing. Yes, I will laugh as you try to keep from screaming. I'll lean over and tenderly stroke your cheek and tell you that I'll end it for you if you only beg me."

Patrick turned his back to the wall, placed the gun back on the floor and sat, again. He took another sip of the Courvoisier, unsteadily replacing the cap and sitting it back on the floor. "This stuff seems to be a bit stronger than the taste would suggest," he thought. "I'd better go easy on it. I do want to look all professional for work tomorrow, now don't I?"

"Hey! Janie boy, will you beg for me," he growled, half turning to face the image on the wall, again. "Will you grovel and whine? No, you say? Well, I don't care what you say. We'll have plenty of time to get to where we want to go, now won't we. I know some interesting things to do to a body to cause pain, too. Unlike you, I was civilized and wouldn't even consider such things. Did you notice that I said that I WAS civilized, Janie? You changed all that, Red Jane. You changed all of that. When we meet, you will not be with the Patrick Jane of old: soft, weak, arrogant and sure. No, you'll be facing a totally different man. I hope you like the man you'll be with. You are going to spend the rest of you life with him. Now, doesn't that sound like fun?"

He grabbed the bottle on the floor and screamed, "Answer me you son of a bitch!" He threw the bottle at the grinning face. "Answer me," he whispered slumping onto the bed. The heavy Courvoisier bottle did not break. It did put a dent in the wall, but it didn't break. The dent in the wall, on closer examination, would simply be one of many. This scene had been played out before, the beginning, middle and end, exactly that same, no variation, except the dialogue my differ slightly. The despair, the pain, the desperation, they were the same. They were the same each time.

Patrick unsteadily fumbled around, finding the cognac bottle. "Hi, buddy. Hope I didn't hurt you." He carefully set it next to the mattress and the gun on the floor, and lie down, slightly groaning as he stretched. "It's been a damn long day," he said lowly, exhaling. He glanced over at the gun. "I'm not sure how many more of these, I can take." He sighed. "Gotta take more. Red John is still out there. I can't rest till I get him. As long as he's alive, he'll have me to worry about."

Patrick's eyes slowly closed. "Someday. Someday, I'll be able to rest," was his last conscious thought of the day...

Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping, Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain,
Still remains, within the sound of silence.

Reviews? Comments?