Everyone saw what he wanted them to see…well, after he'd emerged from his breakdown and the psychiatric hospital where Sophie had helped him pull himself together. At least on the surface.

No one knew he saw the world nearly always tinged red around the edges, red with the blood of his wife and child, red with the blood of innocents he failed to protect. The air never seemed clear of the sharp, coppery tang that still permeated his bedroom at home and he swore he could scent it even in a clean, open field. Like a tinnitus, he could hear their cries, cries he hadn't been present to hear but echoed so horribly in his head.

Thee darkness, the pain, the shadows weighed upon his heart and mind, bearing down upon him to the point where he sometimes thought he would break. Nights were the worst and when he wasn't allowed to stay in the office, he often found himself on the beach, shedding layers of his figurative armor and wading into the water. He'd sink beneath the surf and scream, just scream, unheard by any but the ocean life, until water crept into his mouth, his throat and he sputtered to the surface, gasping for air.

His hold on his sanity was questionable at times and his dogged determination to find and exact horrible retribution from Red John, to slice him open and watch as his life poured out of him, kept him clinging to a veil of normalcy. He could fool them all. He could smile when needed, joke, show other emotions, though sometimes they weren't quite right. Luckily, everyone just wrote him off as being odd.

Then one day it hit him, totally out of the blue. They were sitting together, sharing a case closed pizza, laughing at some bad joke that Rigsby had told badly. Cho was shaking his head as Van Pelt groaned politely. Grinning widely, Jane glanced over at Lisbon who was trying not to choke as she chewed on her slice. As the senior agent met his gaze, a lock of her dark hair tumbled into her face and she blew it away with an annoyed huff of air.

In that moment, Patrick Jane realized he was happy. He wasn't pretending or putting on a show. For a moment, he reveled in the sensation, knowing it would soon fade and his demons would be back in full force, bringing guilt along as a sidekick…but it was worth it, the small, lingering touch of optimism inside him insisted. It was worth it because now he knew there was a possibility that he wasn't totally empty inside, save for hate and a lust for vengeance.

Maybe, just maybe, if he survived his show down with Red John, at some future date, he'd be able to live again.

This revelation was far more stunning to him than any of the mental tricks or observational clue he pulled out of his head to solve cases.

It was enough to make the jaded mentalist believe in real miracles.