Tsol Tsomla

By: DemonClowSorceress

Disclaimer: I wish I did, but I don't own The Mentalist.

The house was dimly lit, almost pitch black. White walls helped carve a path through the darkness, and paintings provided points of reference for passage. The thick carpet muffled any and all footfalls, creating an oppresive silence that almost was a noise of its own. Overwhelming, and complete.

Patrick Jane stepped quietly, making almost no sound. He had to fight to control his breathing so as not to alert his prey. Blue eyes were open as wide as they could, searching for clues, any inkling at all, as to where his elusive quarry was hiding. He was so close. He couldn't fail now.

In front of him was a door. At the other end of the hallway, it seemed to beckon to him, taunting him to run as fast as he could and throw it wide open. But Jane had learned the prudence of caution; one arm hung useless at his side, dripping blood onto the carpet in tiny crimson dots of life.

It was a simple door; white, with basic trim. A door that could've led somewhere innocent, like a bedroom or a playroom, or practical, like a bathroom. There was no indication of where this particular, plain, white, ordinary door led to in this plain, bare, ordinary house.

But Jane had a sickening feeling, and he knew. You didn't have to be a psychic (who are dishonest or deluded or both, and are therefore frauds) to know this was where he was.

The door was so close. Only twelve feet seperated Jane from it. Four yards of thick carpeted hallway between him and his prey. Twelve steps, eleven if he really tried.

The mentalist started forward, then halted as the voices started up again. Whispers brushed over his skin, invaded his ears, the words indistinct and yet understood. Whispers, voices telling him to wait, to hold on, stay back, wait for the others.

Screw waiting. He'd been waiting for years.

He took another step. Ten to go.

The voices murmured, whispered, pestered behind him. A few became almost recognizable - was one of them Sophie Miller? She was always one to tell him to let go, to stop tormenting himself. It would make sense that she was here, trying to stop him from doing what he had to do.

Another step down, nine more to go.

Another voice rose to the surface - Madeleine Hightower? Strange, since she always told him he was the CBI golden boy and that he could do no wrong.

Jane took another step towards the door. He heard his father now, scolding him about his emotions getting the better of him just like when they conned that dying girl in his youth. Alex Jane sounded annoyed, scoffing at Jane's hesitation, but Jane blocked out his words. He wasn't indecisive anymore.

Another step. Seven to go.

Now he heard a softer voice. Kristina Frye? Yes, that was her, begging him to come back towards the light. Jane shook his head in disbelief. She called herself a psychic; couldn't she see his resolve? He'd come much too far to go back now.

Six to go.

Was that Minelli's voice? Jane hadn't heard from the former head of CBI since the man retired after Red John's infiltration. He sounded older, more tired - but no less insistant than the other voices. He spoke the same words as the others, to stop, hold back, don't go on alone.

Five to go.

Why didn't they understand? He'd been alone this whole time. Ever since that night, he'd been dead inside, only existing and never truly living. Jane couldn't understand why these voices couldn't just let him be. Didn't they - couldn't they understand that this was necessary? This was his mission, his goal, his only reason for continuing the hollow existance he laughably called his life.

Four to go.

He heard Kimball Cho's shout from behind him. This was enough to make Jane's steps falter for a brief second. The Asian man rarely showed emotion, even in front of his collegues. But now...he sounded pissed. And desperate.

Three steps to go.

Now Wayne Rigsby's voice echoed down the hallway, telling Jane to wait up. He sounded scared for him, Jane thought. This gave the mentalist a slight pause, but just as quickly he shook it off. He had a job to do.

This was bad. He was losing focus. He couldn't. Not now. Not after he'd come this far.

Two to go.

A muffled shout - Grace Van Pelt, calling to Jane from down the hallway to stop, don't go. The reddish-blonde man shook his head and kept going, knowing that he couldn't look back. If he did, he might lose his nerve. Grace, with all her innocent determination and her steadfast loyalty, could possibly turn him back. And he wasn't willing to take that chance.

One more to go.

Jane wondered who'd call for him now. Would it be Lisbon? Maybe - she wouldn't let him go in there alone. Or maybe he'd hear his wife's voice. If he did, he'd definitely never make it another step.

But suddenly the hall was silent. As if somebody pressed MUTE, the voices melted away, leaving only the sound of Jane's own breathing and heartbeat audible to him.

He took that final step, bringing himself right to the threshold of the innocent white door. And then he heard the voice. Wheezy, light, and calmly cold. Coming from the other side of the door.

"I've been expecting you, Mr. Jane."

There was a heavy feeling in Jane's injured arm. Looking down, he saw that he was holding a large cutting knife in his hand. Blood - his own - dripped off the blade from where it had trickled down his arm and onto his hand.

"Please," said the voice again, drawing Jane's attention back to the door. The door that now sported a smiley face drawn in blood, blood so fresh that it ran to give the appearance that the face was crying. "Welcome, Mr. Jane. Do come in and join me."

No turning back, Jane thought, and grasped the doorknob in his hand. The metal was cold as ice, sticking to his flesh as he turned the knob to open the door.

He sat in a thronelike chair in the center of the room, one ankle drawn up and resting on the knee of his other leg. His elbows rested on the chair's arms, fingers laced as if he were a principal regarding a delinquent student. The man's face was in shadow, but his hands were visible - hands stained in blood.

Jane knew who sat before him. "Red John."

"I'm disappointed," said the serial killer. "I expected you to come barreling in, gun drawn and pumping the trigger as fast as you could." his head inclined, showing his shifting gaze towards the bloody knife. "But a knife? That's so...barbaric."

"It'll do the job," Jane replied, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his body.

Red John laughed darkly. "Oh please. This grandstanding business of yours is so old. You're no killer."

"You don't know anything about me." Jane took another step forward. "I've lived for this day. You're not getting away from me this time."

"I just have to ask." Red John raised his fingertips, still laced together, as he cackled. "How did you find me?"

Jane was very, very careful not to gloat. "Rosalind, for one. She gave us a very good description of you."

Another dark chuckle. Jane swallowed and pressed on. "Then we found evidence - "

"We?" repeated Red John. "You're still relying on that crutch of yours, that CBI team?" He sounded amused.

Jane's grip tightened on his knife. "They're good enough to find out where your little hidey-hole was, you sick son of a bitch," he spat.

"So where are those delightful agents? Cho, Rigsby, Van Pelt, and...Lisbon?" Despite the question, Jane knew that Red John knew exactly what he was saying. "Don't tell me you're waiting for them to come here?"

"This is between you and me."

Red John sighed. "I have wondered about that, Mr. Jane. You see, I believe you've, shall we say, lost your touch." One hand rose with the index finger extended, wagging disapprovingly. "It's surprising that after all these years of searching, you're just standing there calmly."

A strangled snort ripped from Jane's lips. "If you think this is calm, then you won't want to see me angry."

The haze of rage was beginning to cloud his mind, but he could still see the details and store them away. The room was small, a tiny bedroom, and bare of furniture except for Red John's chair. Red John himself was unarmed. It would be so easy to lunge forward and stab him, to slice that smile off his arrogant face and deliver vengeance for everyone he had killed. Jane's jaw tightened, clenching so hard that it hurt, and prepared to move.

"You know," Red John said offhandedly, almost carelessy, "we're very alike, you and I."

"We're nothing alike."

The serial killer chuckled. "Of course we are. Shall I list the similarities?" His bloody hand formed a fist, a finger rising at every fact. "We are both showmen - you put on your clever little mentalist tricks, while I display my work for the world to see. We share a sense of theatre - my signature must always be seen before the body, and your performance must have false acts before the final deduction. We use the people around us to further our own ways - I use my tools, and you use those charming agents that you cavort with."

"I don't use the CBI," Jane retorted, seething at the comparison.

"Of course you do. You've used them ever since you offered your services to them." Red John shifted in his seat. "You and I are more alike than you care to believe, Mr. Jane."

Jane felt his mouth twist into that cocky grin he used to rile up suspects. "Of course. Because I'm a raging homicidal sociopath who stabs my victims until they're unrecognizable, plays manicurist with their blood, and fingerpaints a three-year-old design on the walls. Oh yes, we're two peas in a pod."

It was an unconscious reaction, and a deadly mistake. Red John's entire body tensed up. "A very bad idea, Mr. Jane. Did the last time you taunted me teach you nothing?"

Jane heard the door swing shut behind him. The resulting slam made the mentalist jump, and he reflexively looked back to see if anyone had entered the room. That was his second mistake - taking his eyes off Red John.

The man's voice emanated from right behind Jane. "It looks like I shall have to teach you again."

Jane reacted, bringing his knife around in a wide slashing arc. Red John jumped back, only getting the front of his shirt cut. Jane gave a wordless roar and lunged for him, trying to stab Red John, but the killer was too fast. A game of cat and mouse ensued, but Jane knew he wasn't the cat. Red John was playing with the knife-wielding mouse, making him work and sweat and lose his energy until he had the perfect opportunity to strike.

It happened without him noticing. Red John darted up under his defenses and tackled Jane around the middle, sending both men to the floor. The knife was knocked from Jane's hand and a frantic wrestling match began, each combatant fighting for dominance and for the weapon.

Jane fought with five years' rage and hate, all directed at the man who took away his family. Gone was his sharp mind and passive attitude; now he was a whirlwind of bloodlust, grappling like a mountain lion against an enemy for the sheer want of the other's blood. A small part of his mind was horrified that he was such a monster, but the thought barely penetrated Jane's rage-clouded mind.

With a roll he managed to pin Red John to the ground. His hand grabbed the hilt of the knife, and he rose it above his head to plunge the cold silver blade into the chest of his enemy.

The serial killer froze for a second, then laughed. In the face of Jane's rage and unwavering conviction, he laughed long and hard.

"What's so funny?" snarled Jane.

Red John sighed, still chuckling. "The thought that you think you're ending it - ending my show - with my death. Don't you know that every production has a grand climax?" His head tilted to look at the other side of the room. Unable to stop himself, Jane looked as well.

The wall was covered in Red John's crying smiley faces. Along the wall ran a bed. And on the bed was -

Oh dear God, no.

Jane saw the red sheets - and the blue where the red hadn't quite covered the fabric yet. He saw the pool around the bed, staining the carpet dark. He saw the hand stretching for the floor, limp as a dishrag, the nails painted red with blood. The same blood that covered Red John's fingers.

He saw dark green eyes, vacant in death, staring at him from a blood-spattered face.

Red John chuckled again, tearing Jane's gaze away from the horrific sight. Jane looked down again - and found himself. Patrick Jane stared down at himself, just as Patrick Jane smirked up at him. "She was so different from your wife," said the Red John Jane, "but they both died the same - painfully."

"Bastard!" screamed Jane, bringing the knife down.

But there was no knife in his hand anymore. Jane's abdomen suddenly exploded in pain, like white-hot fire seared through his muscles and blood. He screamed in agony and rolled a safe distance away from the other Patrick Jane, who got to his feet and brushed himself off.

"Now you see, Mr. Jane?" asked Red John/Jane, coming to stand over Jane as he tried removing the knife from his gut - the same knife Jane had been holding minutes before. "We're more alike than you care to believe." He gave a last laugh before walking out the door, slamming it shut again. There was a loud Click! as the lock slid home, trapping Jane in the room with Red John's latest victim.

The knife was too deep. Jane could feel himself slipping away, his energy bleeding out through his wound. Gasping for breath, he turned his head towards the bed again, towards that green-eyed corpse, and felt the tears slipping from his eyes. My fault, he thought brokenly, his mind already shutting down from the loss of blood. It's my fault. I'm sorry...I...

Jane blinked slowly, his vision blurring. Which is probably why he thought he was seeing the impossible; the green-eyed woman's slack face changing expression, her eyes gaining a spark of desperation and anger, her shout of "JANE!" The reddish blonde man blinked again, but when he did, she was still dead. A hallucination because I'm dying? Oh, hilarious, he thought dryly. He had to blink again. Was the room always this bright?

The walls seemed to be glowing, bright white underneath the garish fingerpaintings of Red John. The light appeared to be coming from the cieling, but Jane couldn't move his head enough to see the source. His body felt cold, so cold, and so heavy. It's not hurting anymore, Jane thought sluggishly. But it's so bright... His eyes, heavy and tired, drifted shut...

"Daddy?"

That woke Jane up. Gone were the smiley faces, the blood-covered floor, the bed, the corpse. Jane sat up, the knife mysteriously gone and his pain vanished. He anxiously checked himself for a wound, for blood, for anything. But there was nothing under his hands but the fabric of his suit.

"Daddy?" repeated that strangely familiar voice.

Jane turned and saw two people he thought he'd never see again. The white light behind them made it impossible to see their faces, but he recognized their silhouettes. But he refused to believe it was them. There is no other side, there is no other side... God, he felt like Dorothy in some crack parody of The Wizard of Oz.

The taller one laughed. Unlike Red John's laugh, which was a dischordant medley of madness and sinful pleasure, this laugh rang like crystal bells. "Patrick, you look so ridiculous there. But it's good to see you again, face to face."

It's not real, they're not real, she's not real...

"Mommy, why is Daddy mumbling to himself like that?" asked the smaller one. "Isn't he happy to see us? We can be a family again, right?"

"Now now dear, remember why we're here." The first speaker stepped closer - just one step, but then she was standing in front of him. "Patrick, I know you want to avenge us. But you should live for yourself. Even if you catch Red John, it won't change the fact that we're still gone." She knelt down to his eye level, smiling that familiar fond smile. "You have to live for yourself, Patrick. Please...for us."

Her hand reached out to touch his cheek, but Jane flinched back. If she actually touched him...he didn't know what he'd do. He couldn't think. All he could do was hope that, if this was a hallucination brought on by his death, that it ended quickly. He wasn't afraid of death, and he didn't believe in the afterlife...but this had to be hell.

She smiled in understanding. The light behind her flickered, and she looked behind him. "Oops, looks like it's time," she said, rising to her feet again. "You'd better go back. It's not time for you to join us yet." A last laugh, and she walked back towards the white light she had come from, with the little girl right beside her. Jane heard the wind whistle to a whining pitch as the light blinded him -

And then an enormous jolt arced through his chest. The wind whooshed again, bringing with it a chorus of sounds that overwhelmed Jane's hearing.

"No change!"

"We're losing him!"

"Dammit Jane, wake up!"

"Charging! CLEAR!"

Another jolt, like a donkey him in the chest with both hind legs. Jane felt his tired body buckle, the lights flared again, and then he just fell asleep.

When his eyes opened again, it was to a white ceiling and drapes. He could smell the antiseptic stinging his nose and recalled the scent from when he'd lost his sight - he was in the hospital. What the... he thought, blinking to wake up some more. For some reason he felt very groggy, like he'd taken a very, very long nap.

"Jane?"

That voice... Jane looked over and saw Lisbon staring at him, her hands on the plastic armrests of the uncomfortable-looking hospital chair she sat in, looking ready to jump up should he need her. There was a look of awestruck relief on her face, her eyes quickly darting over his face to assess his condition. Jane had to stare as well - the last time he'd seen those vibrant green eyes, they'd been staring back from a corpse.

"Lisbon?" he croaked, unable to believe it.

She sighed in relief, a hand over her heart. "Thank God," she breathed. "I thought we'd lost you for a while there." Lisbon pulled her chair closer to his bed and leaned over, closely examining his face. She held up three fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two, and a thumb," Jane replied absently. "What happened?" Now that he was thinking about it, he couldn't remember what had happened to land him in the hospital. All he could recall was that - Dream? Memory? Near-death experience? Wait, that last one's ridiculous, he thought - and the knife in that one. "What happened to me, Lisbon?"

"God, you really did get messed up." She sank back in the chair, eyes sliding closed. "You got shot. By the suspect, who we arrested, by the way." Her hand came up to rub the bridge of her nose. "I thought he was harmless, just a scared kid. I didn't think he'd actually shoot you, Jane. Then you went down, and all that blood - " She shuddered. "Van Pelt called the ambulance while Cho and Rigsby cuffed the guy. It was noisy - you were slipping away and we had to keep shouting at you to keep you awake long enough for the EMTs to arrive and do their thing."

That was what they were shouting? Jane thought. He recalled something like that happening, but it was fuzzy, like he watched a movie through a thick gauze blanket.

"Then I was in the ambulance when you started really slipping away. My throat is still hoarse from shouting at you," Lisbon went on. "You had to go straight into the OR. It was a tough one, and they almost lost you in there too. Then there was some internal bleeding...and you flatlined - "

Jane's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I died?"

Lisbon nodded slowly. Her hand fell away from her face, and for a horrifiying second, Jane thought he was looking at the corpse in Red John's room again. Her skin was pale and drawn, and those eyes - those beautiful green eyes - had gone vacant. Then she blinked, dispelling the phantom image.

"Your heart stopped for a minute and twenty seconds," she whispered hoarsely. Her chest heaved shallow breaths, as if she were reliving the experience again. "Longest minute and change of my life. I really thought - I actually thought that you'd - " Then her dark brown hair whipped from side to side as she shook her head. "But then they revived you, and now you're in the ICU. It's been a tough three days, Jane."

"I was out for three days?" Jane repeated, his eyes bugging out of their sockets. No wonder I'm so groggy. The senior agent stretched in her seat, and Jane realized something he hadn't seen before. "Wait...that's the same suit you were wearing when we went to arrest - "

And he stopped, because then he saw the red liquid dotting her shirt like garish spatter art. Blood. His? He didn't know.

"Huh?" Lisbon looked down and swore. "Oh damn." When she looked up again, she had her trademark sarcasm smile on. "I knew I should've dressed for the occasion, but with the surgery and the flatlining and ripping you from the jaws of death, I didn't have time. My bad."

Jane smirked as well, relieved how quickly she'd reverted back to herself. Honestly, Lisbon worried was not something he could bear. "You're forgiven. I just get your case-solved pizza."

"Hey! Nobody gets my pizza!" she objected.

"But I was wounded in the line of duty!" he replied, adopting his injured pout.

Lisbon crossed her arms and gave her own pout, but there was still a hint of smile on her lips. "Well, that's true. And you should have something for that. But not the pizza."

"What then?" asked Jane, interested. He could see the spark of mischief in Lisbon's eye, but he couldn't discern what her plan was. Contrary to his boasting, it was actually quite difficult to predict the CBI agent's thoughts and actions. Which, of course, was one of the reasons why he was so attracted to her in the first place.

The brunette's head tilted forward, making her curtain of hair fall into and cover her face. Jane, curious as to her sudden shyness, leaned forward as far as his dully throbbing side would let him. "Lisbon?"

It was quick and brief. If Jane hadn't been paying close attention, he may have missed it altogether. She leaned closer. He felt the barest contact of her lips on his cheek and inhaled a sweet breath of her, a mix of strawberries and the gun oil she used to clean her weapon.

"I'm glad you're safe," whispered Lisbon. Then she was gone, leaving the mentalist's head reeling.

But he didn't have much time to think about it. As soon as Lisbon opened the door, the rest of the team poured in and clustered around Jane's bedside, chattering all at once.

Rigsby, grinning like a kid with sugar and willing to share some with his best friend.

Grace, patting his arm like a kind mother with that relieved smile that he was all right.

Cho, stoic as always, but more relaxed in his posture as he stood like a silent pillar.

And Lisbon, leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest, giving Jane a smile all her own.

He glanced at each of them in turn, feeling a sincere smile play along his lips as he realized that they were, indeed, his friends.

He would find Red John. He alone would end his nightmares.

But it was nice of his friends, he thought, to have his back.

This has been festering in my mind and in my folder for weeks now. Hope you like it. I kinda do. Review please!

And if you can guess what the title is, bonus points!

*hint: it's not another language.