With thanks to Mossi.b, who's insightful comments on 'All systems go' inspired this piece, and to Sue Shay and Cumberland River Relic, for their beta reading, critique and friendship. Check out their latest stories – 'White Out' from Sue, solving crimes in the Colorado winter, and Cumberland River Relic's heartwarming romance, 'Clear Blue Morning'.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to the Mentalist and make no money from fanfiction.

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December 6th, 2013

Dear Diary,

This is a first for me. I haven't used paper to store my memories since I was about six years old. And probably not before that. I began the first room in my memory palace on my sixth birthday. My father insisted. One of the few worthwhile things he ever did for me, though of course he had ulterior motives. He always did.

It's strange, thinking back to then. The first 'room' was the cab at the front of the Airstream that we shared. The dials and lights all became placeholders. Now the palace comprises the full carney circuit that I toured with my father, plus Malibu, the CBI bullpen and attic, Lisbon's office and a special room devoted to McAllister's death. I don't spend much time there. I did what I had to do and it's done. He's not worth my memories or any more of my time.

I wonder if this place will end up in my memory palace too. Hard to say at the moment. The system has gone down for, what's the term, 'scheduled maintenance'. Or maybe 'emergency maintenance'. I'm not sure. Last time it shut down, I was in the hospital where I met Sophie. That was the only time. But this time isn't so frightening. I can still feel it there. It hasn't vanished. It's just being rewired.

So diary, why am I talking to you? It makes a pleasant change, that's why. I've been in Venezuela for 3 weeks now, and settled in this village a week, no 10 days, ago. It's OK. Meets my needs. My little flat with a bed and a change of clothes. I found a throw that had been left in the cupboard – the last tenant died so she doesn't need it – and fashioned it into a sarong.

It's not a bad place. The villagers speak to me and pass the time of day, though my Spanish is halting. I did pick up a dictionary on the way here. The sun bakes the earth each day but there's usually a breeze, and walking by the ocean is calming. Relaxing.

I need time to unwind. Too much to process. I feel numb. Like every nerve and brain cell has been cauterised.

I just wish Lisbon could be here. I look for her round every corner. I've lost count of the times that I think I've spotted her along the distant shoreline. Sometimes I feel like I'm coming down from that wacky belladonna tea. Or like a homing pigeon that's lost its sense of navigation. Just circling, unable to return to the coop. Pretty dumb, huh?

I guess I need the time out. Time to think about my precious girls. To grieve for them now that the guilt isn't blocking that. I don't look forward to it but it has to be done. I want to remember them as they were. Alive and happy. Not mutilated and dead. No wonder the memory palace is offline.

Lisbon once told me that the ultimate test of love is letting go. Accepting that I still belong with the living even if they're dead. That's what they would want of me, if they could still want anything. And therefore that is how Lisbon reckons that I should honour their memory. By embracing the life and the future that they didn't get to have. I guess she's right. She usually is. But that's asking so much of me that I'm not sure I can deliver. I know that I'm a selfish coward. That's not news. So I'm going to wallow and wander in the memories a little while longer. The good ones, that is. At least when my brain decides to come back. And in the meantime, there's sleep. Lots of it. Can't get enough!

Well diary, that's enough for today. What do you think? Is this the start of a long and beautiful friendship, or are you bored already? Mmm. As taciturn as Cho. You'll do fine, you know.