Hi all! This is my first attempt at a Mentalist work. I just recently started watching it, and am loving it so far! The emotional trauma that Patrick Jane carries around fascinates me, so naturally I had to dive in. If you don't want to read Jane struggling emotionally and dealing with his trauma, please pass on this fic. As it deals with pain, loss, emotional suffering, and coping, this is rated Mature. Takes place anytime during Season 1 (since I've only watched until episode 10 lol). Read on for some emotionally tormented Jane.
Characters and concept are Bruno Heller's, I'm just borrowing them!
The leather couch felt nice after the day he'd had. The case was no more gruesome or painful than what he and the team had seen before. But when there's kids involved…it's always hard.
The team had been sneaking him looks the past few days. Van Pelt always had this pitying look in her large eyes whenever he discussed the little girl's murder. Rigsby never said anything, but there happened to be a steaming mug of tea next to his couch every morning. Cho…well Cho was his normal, quiet self. But his protective stare found its way skimming across the bull pen to Jane more often than usual. The only one who wasn't handling him with kid gloves was Lisbon.
He could hear the family speaking to Lisbon across the room. They'd caught the guy who did it, after Jane's hunch led them straight there of course, but he didn't want any part of telling the family that. Jane let his breathing even out, and kept his eyes shut, feigning sleep. He couldn't look that father in the eyes, knowing what he knew. Seeing his own pain…
Stop it. Don't do this now. Jane cleared his throat and shoved down the emotions threatening to spill over. He couldn't do this now. He needed to breathe. Breathe.
He knew the team had read his files. They knew exactly what this day meant to him. He knew they tried to be stealth about their side glances and nice gestures. But he noticed. He noticed everything.
The blood is still wet, as the drips slither down his white walls. He knows what lays beyond the closed door, knows exactly what he'll find. All at once he feels hot, then cold. His breathing was shallow, dark spots danced on the outside of his vision. Time seemed to slow down, as the door swung wide open…
Jane's eyes flashed open, his breathing labored. He scoured the bull pen; it was dark and quiet. It seemed everyone had gone home.
He swung his legs around the couch, dropping his head to his hands, elbows resting wearily on his legs. He let out a shaky breath and ran his hands through his hair.
"This day," he muttered under his breath, willing his breathing to normalize and his emotions to stay in check.
He thanked his lucky stars that the team had left him alone. He hadn't wanted them to ask if he was alright, if they could get him anything, if they could do anything…he didn't need their pity.
Jane conveniently was never in the office on this day. He always planned something: an illness, an emergency, a "vacation". Something that would get him out of the office and away from the stares and whispers that he knew would follow him around that day. He would be shut away in the confines of his own home, his back to the corner, sitting in the dark, reliving his memories over and over again. Blissfully alone. But this time…damn he was off his game. It was this case. This case.
A little girl. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought she was sleeping. But she wouldn't have been sleeping out on the rocky beach of Sonoma Coast State Park. She looked so little wrapped in an oversized red blanket…
He was too invested, too close to the case. He hadn't slept more than a few hours over the past week. Jane had to find the killer, he just had to.
In all the sleepless nights, following down leads, and intuitive leaps, the day had come upon him so quickly. He swore silently under his breath, wishing he could have solved the case just a little bit sooner. Then he wouldn't have to be here today. He wouldn't have had to pretend everything was alright, when in fact he felt like his whole body was numb. His chest felt too tight, like he couldn't catch his breath, and his heart was beating too loudly, pounding in his ears. He felt the whisper of his wife and daughter's fingers on his own, the ghost of their laughter just out of reach, the red smiley face seared into his brain.
He barely made it through the day, his façade masking the utter turmoil beneath the surface. And now he was alone. Blessedly alone.
He leaned back into the cushions, relishing the comfort and coolness of the leather. He was exhausted. The past few days of running on fumes and the effort he put into appearing normal had drained him.
Alone.
A lone tear snaked out of the corner of his eye.
"This damn day."
He could hear the crack in his voice, the emotion, the pain.
He relished the quiet, knowing he could wipe off his mask and let himself go. There was no one here to pretend for.
I miss you. I miss you both so much…
Gone. They were gone. He could almost feel the cool metal of the doorknob in his hand, and the cold sweat that dripped down his back at the sight of the bloody face on the wall.
He felt the familiar pangs of sorrow, self-loathing, and anger. He was drowning in his memories, reliving his pain as if it had only just happened. He was alone. All alone.
But you're not all alone, a tiny voice in his head whispered. You may feel alone, you may feel lonely, but you are not alone. He let his eyes sweep around the bull pen. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Van Pelt's sympathetic stares, Rigsby's mugs of tea, Cho's watchful gaze. And Lisbon. Lisbon. She hadn't treated him any different and for that he was grateful. In their own ways they had given him small gestures of support. He may not have wanted them, but they were there all the same. He truly wasn't alone, with the four of them in his corner.
They will never know the extent of his pain. He will never let them see into his tormented soul. He'll keep them at an arms distance. But, somehow, he knew they would be there. He could…rely on them. A surprised laugh escapes his lips. He hadn't had someone to rely on in quite some time.
Jane slowly lowered himself back down to the couch and folded his hands across his chest. He took a shaky breath and slowly closed his eyes. He knew his sleep would be tormented by dreams reliving that moment over and over. But it was just this day.
He'd pick himself back up in the morning, brush himself off, and start anew. He felt a little less alone knowing that in the morning Van Pelt, Rigsby, Cho, and Lisbon would waltz into the office to tackle a new case. And he knew that what he was feeling, what had happened to him, would never really be far from his mind. But he had a goal, a focus. He would throw his whole mind behind the search for his wife and daughter's killer. His work was not yet done. Because Red John was still out there. And in his heart, Jane knew that he would die at his hand. He just knew it.
Hope you all liked it! Thoughts, comments, or criticisms are welcome. Thank you for reading!