Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.
Warning: Death.
Spoilers: None.
Author: Spontaneouschocolaterabbits

A/N: The Mentalist is American and I apologise for any English/British spellings or phrases.

Please enjoy.


Red John and Lisbon

It's late at night and she's in the same old routine; eating food, watching tv, doing paperwork. She's half asleep from the tedious monotony, but a noise jerks her awake, and when she cautiously opens her eyes, he's there.

Red John.

She doesn't know how he got in, doesn't care. There are bigger things to worry about than a busted lock, or a broken window.
He's brought company, a burly looking, gangster of a man, all tattoos and muscles. The kind of man you'd warn your kids to stay away from.
But she barely glances at him, because Red John stares at her, a deep, soul-searching stare, that makes her want to confess all her secrets, and stay in those beautiful eyes forever. That's when she begins to get scared, because she's only seen one other person stare like that, and that person was Mr. Patrick Jane.
He pulls out a knife, a thing of beauty; it entrances her, as shadows dance on the deadly metal blade.
She knows what's coming, knows what he will say, and what she will reply.

And that's what scares her most.

She finds herself drawn to the glinting blade, but she shakes her head, mentally berating herself for getting distracted by an object of death, when she's meant to be thinking about what could possibly turn out be her own.
A minute of silence, of hurried, frenzied thought, and she has made her decision; and Red John has made his.
He laughs, a maniacal laugh full of death and dark mocking, and the knife plunges, not once, not twice, but three times into soft human flesh.
She feels disgusted, horrified, scared, and yet at the same time, oddly calm.

The world starts to spin, as warm, red liquid oozes through her fingers.

Using the last of her strength, she painstakingly writes on the floor in blood, and Red John watches, understanding the need to leave something behind, to tell Jane that she doesn't blame him, and that she never will. Her eyes close, and she realises that her life will now end...

And her new life will begin.

Red John offers her his arm, and she takes it. They walk out of her apartment and into the cold night air, neither of them looking back at the murdered man lying on the floor, or the message written in blood beside him:

'I'm sorry Jane, I don't blame you, but you should have seen it coming. Did you really believe I could resist a manipulative, charming, unpredictable mentalist?'