Chapter One: Dying Flame

A Robin Redbreast in a cage

Puts all of Heaven in a rage

A Skylark wounded on the wing

Doth make a cherub cease to sing

He who shall hurt the little [ Red ] Wren

Shall never be beloved by men.

William Blake- Three Things to Remember

Harsh pounding on the metallic door echoed throughout the still room. City lights were prominent in the inked sky, although the windows in the repurposed apartment on the tallest floor of the police building were clouded with dust and grime. The room itself was dimly lit with only the street lamps as a source of light; one might assume that the occupant had turned the lights off for the night, but on the contrary, he hadn't bothered to switch the bulb on in the first place.

The knocking grew louder with every pound, more desperate. The unnamed knocker spoke.

"Jane, open the door!"

Silence. The wooden surroundings echoed no reverberation of a reply.

Another voice, feminine and authoritative, presented itself.

"Shoot the lock," the voice commanded.

Subsequently, a shot was fired at the door. The sound of hinges protesting against movement was heard for a split second as footfalls thundered on the floorboards.

The voices belonged to two of the people entering the room, Agent Lisbon and Agent Cho of the CBI investigative unit, with agents Van Pelt and Rigsby at their heels.

What their sights fell upon was unexpected, to say the least.

Extremities sprawled at different angles, a body laid on the worn wood of the floor near the blanket-less cot. The figure's hand loosely clasped the neck of a bottom-shattered beer bottle, glass littering the wooden planks and reflecting light like minuscule pieces of quartzite. Some remnants of the bottle glittered on the dark vest of Catalina blue, which was paired with a business jacket of a lighter shade, and underneath a thinly striped cream shirt. The polished shoes of the man were scuffed on the edges, his pants ruffled and twisted on his legs.

Blond, curly locks framed the man's face, which looked peaceful, with his eyes closed fast and the lack of emotion written on it. His chest didn't appear to be moving.

In less than a heartbeat, Agent Lisbon rushed to the side of the man, bending down on her knees to asses him.

Van Pelt gave a gasp, a delicate hand flying to her mouth, the other lowering her previously readied pistol. Rigsby stood with his mouth slightly agape, shocked at the situation, but present enough in mind to put a reassuring hand on Van Pelt's shoulder.

Looking over Lisbon to see the body of the CBI consultant, Van Pelt asked fearfully, "Is he alright?"

Seconds passed as Lisbon's shaking fingers fiddled around the man's neck for a pulse, her dark bangs guarding her glassy eyes.

"He's got a pulse," Lisbon said before sighing in relief, clutching her gold cross necklace as if it were a lifeline. "But just barely. Rigsby, call the paramedics now," she ordered with masked emotion, turning to face Cho, who was busying himself at the table a short distance from the bed.

"Have you got anything Cho?"

Cho shook his head, seemingly as a responsive no, but then he spoke.

"There's an empty bottle of a prescribed benzodiazepine, listed for the daily use of one pill, and received on May 22nd. He couldn't have finished this off in five days."

Cho's face, which was usually void of emotion, was now a mix of sorrow and anger. He took the prescription bottle and chucked it to the other side of the room, the anger taking over as it was the stronger emotion of the two.

Van Pelt kneeled beside Lisbon whilst Rigsby talked hastily into his cell phone, his left hand's fingers running through his hair in a sign of distress.

"I should've seen this coming," Teresa berated herself, her gaze never leaving Jane, "Jane's been more depressed than usual, and he's never done anything more for his insomnia other than drinking decaf tea..."

Lisbon had had been curious when the consultant announced that he had a doctor's visit just five days previously, because Jane hadn't bothered to cure his insomnia for nine years. She never acted upon her curiosity, and now Teresa felt that she was to blame for not noticing this odd sign.

"None of us expected this, boss." Grace was careful not to look at Jane's form. "You shouldn't blame yourself."

Whispers were heard under Lisbon's breath as she prayed for the life of her coworker. Rigsby and Cho looked on as Van Pelt and Lisbon crouched near Jane, who's stillness was unnerving and a cold stab to the heart of his fellow agents.

"Let him live," Teresa begged breathily, tears spilling without permission, as sirens were heard down in the city streets below.

XxX

A/N:

This is my first fanfiction for The Mentalist, which is a fandom I've recently become a part of. If you like this story so far, feel free to review. Any constructive criticism is appreciated.

There will soon be more to come, and the chapters will ( most likely ) be longer. Thanks for reading!