TW: mentions of suicide.

Jane looked down at Red John's lifeless body underneath him. His hand was still sweaty and shaky, wrapped around his throat. His breath was ragged and helpless, each gasp for air bringing emotion back into his body. It overwhelmed him. For over a decade, numbness had plagued him. He had tried to feel — pain, grief, sadness, anger, happiness, excitement, love. But he'd never been able to feel more than a watered-down version of any emotion. The instant the life left Thomas McAllister's eyes, every repressed emotion hit him like a freight train. A confusing mix of conflicting feelings and he couldn't quite think over the roar. It was like a thousand voices screaming in different languages that he couldn't quite interpret. He just wanted it to end. Anything to stop the roar.

He lifted the gun and looked closely at it, not quite committing to turning it on himself, but giving it a moment's consideration. He'd never intended to outlive Red John. He didn't have a reason to outlive Red John. His purpose was fulfilled, and if ending his life would stop the roar, then what was holding him back?

Jane had always heard that right before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. He'd had to spend ten years wondering what his girls had thought about in their last moments. Angela must have seen her childhood with the carnival. She must have seen them running away that October night in Nevada, falling in love, bailing Danny out of jail in her wedding dress, spending days by the ocean, buying their Malibu house, the day Charlotte was born, and countless other memories that she'd deemed important that otherwise seemed ordinary. His poor Charlotte had so much less to recall — playtime with Daddy on the beach and piano lessons with Mommy. So much had been taken. Not only from Jane, but from two girls with so much life left to live.

He'd also wondered for years what he would see when his life flashed before his eyes. He expected to see his father, his family, and the night he came home to find them butchered. Now that it was happening, he saw those things, of course, but so much more. Giving a paper frog to Lisbon, teaching Rigsby a card trick, giving a pony to Lisbon for her birthday, stakeouts with Cho, hugging Lisbon on the beach, going undercover with Van Pelt, Lisbon strapped in a bomb vest, Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon. The way she looked in emeralds, dancing with her at that high school reunion, teasing her with diamonds in a vault, almost losing her in that cabin, blueberry muffins in jail, Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon.

He looked down at the gun and saw a different flash this time. It was still of Lisbon, but it was at his funeral. The light had been taken out of her eyes. She was a hollow shell of the woman she once was. He saw her having to identify his body, a gunshot wound marring her memory of his appearance. He saw her tired eyes, her slumped posture, and her absolute inability to trust or love again because he — the one person that promised to always save her, the one person in her life whom she trusted and loved and confided in — he had let her down. He realized he wouldn't be the only one dying. That pain he felt wouldn't end. It would just be transferred to the person he cared most about. He suddenly couldn't bear the thought of ruining Teresa Lisbon's life because he was too cowardly to press on.

He lowered the gun.

A/N: Since I didn't say anything on my last story, this is my formal hello. I have been around for years on this forum, and have posted before under a certain name. So, I know many of you. I write to relieve stress, so I hope that you enjoy the product. This is super short and was written very quickly, but I have something much longer in the works. Thanks for reading.