Hi everyone. Thank you very much for the reviews and the follows. This is my first foray into the fanfic world and it is very exciting!

I have been lurking for a while, reading and enjoying, then got up the courage to register then post some reviews and now finally am writing my first story. It's been very inspiring to read the work of so many wonderful writers on this site. Although I don't have the talent to be a professional I still hope I can contribute something positive to this forum.

(BTW, I have found the updating function hasn't been working for me. I tried to fix some typos in chapter 1 but the revised chapter wouldn't publish. If anyone has any advice I would appreciate hearing it.)

I originally thought this would be a one-shot, but it looks like it will be 3 chapters or so. It's funny how the story leads you and not the other way around.

Donna

The morning shone bright and clear, another California cliché, but the beautiful sunshine couldn't erase the memory of last night's dream. He felt troubled and adrift, wondering what action he should take to get off the path that he had put himself and Lisbon on.

"And yes," a small voice in his head whispered, "I put us on this path, not Red John. I have to take responsibility for it."

He felt himself choking up as this thought burrowed its way through his conscience. He had been feeling fragile and on the verge of tears since he had woken. All night he had lain there thinking, trying to process the maelstrom of feelings the dream had built up inside of him. Even after several hours he still felt unable to snap his mask in place. He relied on it to allow him to face the world. Where was the vaunted self-control that he prided himself on? Where was the armour that Lisbon so often cursed him for?

"Am I grieving?" He said aloud.

That was impossible. He had grieved, years ago. Hadn't he?

He thought about Kübler-Ross' five stages of grief.

Denial? He'd been catatonic when he was first brought into the institution. His mind had rejected the horrific reality it had been confronted with and instead created its own world, one where he and his family were still happy and thriving.

Depression? Once out of his catatonia, the "black dog" became his daily companion, lying on his chest, its great weight keeping him from even raising his head. He and Sophie fought that demon hound until it was forced back and he was able to function on his own again.

Bargaining? He can't even begin to count the number of times he has prayed to Lisbon's God (the one he doesn't believe in) to take him instead and bring back his wife and child.

Anger? For the past ten years anger has been his closest friend ("Closer than Lisbon?" the voice whispered). He has kept his anger close to his heart, pushed down deep. He feared that if he ever truly let it out he might be locked back up in that institution, for his fury would rage for days.

Acceptance? Acceptance? He always thought he would gain this once Red John was dead. But ten years later here he was, still waiting. His shoulders sagged, Charlotte was right.

"Admit the truth Patrick" the quiet voice said. "It wasn't Charlotte. You said those things to yourself. You know what you have to do, you've known for months now."

Yes. He made a decision.

Surprising himself, he found that he wanted to share this with someone. Not just someone, he wanted to share this with Teresa.

So, even though it was early he knew that she would already be up but not yet on the road; he called her cell.

"Lisbon." It felt good to hear her competent, tough cop voice. But now that he had her on the line, he felt a sudden shyness overtake him. This wasn't easy to communicate in a quick phone call.

"It's me. What are you doing today?"

"Um, I'm working. The same thing that you're supposed to be doing." He could hear the wry amusement and mild confusion in her voice.

"Come over to my place today."

"Your place? You mean in Malibu?"

"Yes, where else would I mean?" He loved keeping her off balance.

"Wear casual clothes. I need help with some painting."

He hung up knowing that Teresa (when did he start thinking of her as Teresa and not Lisbon?) would understand the significance of what he had said and would respond accordingly.

Now that he had talked to her he felt a little stronger. Teresa fortified him somehow. In the meantime, he had a few hours before she arrived to pick up paint supplies, some food and do some other errands. His mask still wouldn't slip into place. All he could manage was a paler, more transparent version but it would be enough.

Perhaps this was what regular people felt like? Hmmm, Patrick Jane, just a man after all. This was truly a day for revelations.