Title: Progression of an Obsession

Rating: T

Disclaimer: Do not currently and will never own The Mentalist.

Summary: Five times Red John was lingering in the background of Patrick Jane's life. Written from Red John's POV for the 2012 TM Reverse BB on LJ.

Author's Note: Written for the 2012 Mentalist Reverse Big Bang on LiveJournal! Inspired by a very lovely piece of art, and beta'd by Afterglow04. Seeing as this fic spans 20 years at the least and Red John is there from the start, for the purposes of this fic we'll say that he's in his mid 20's when our story begins.

Progression of an Obsession

i.

He dips three gloved fingers into the warm blood of his latest victim, a young woman with stunning good looks and a full head of blonde curls, smiling to himself as he paints the familiar face on the wall opposite the door.

It had been a while since his last kill, and he'd been missing this - this thrilling sensation, the feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment he gets every time he watches the life drain from some helpless woman's eyes.

He turns, begins to hum to himself as he cleans up his mess - snapping off the gloves, wiping down the knife, taking extra care not to leave any evidence behind as he stashes all of his things into a black duffle bag.

That's when he hears them. Light footsteps that sound suspiciously close to him. He pivots toward the noise, knife brandished to defend himself, and... nothing. He sees no one. His eyes scan the room, going lower and lower until-

"What have we here?" he says quietly.

Of course he hadn't noticed before; he'd been looking for an adult that had come after him! Instead, sitting before him in a thin puddle of blood, is a young boy. He can't be any older than three or four, has the same shiny yellow ringlets as his mother lying dead on the floor, and piercing blue eyes that seem to be mesmerized by the dripping red face on the wall.

This is what catches him off guard - the boy doesn't cry for his mom, doesn't scream, doesn't make a single noise. He just sits there, his gaze flicking between the smile on the wall and the strange man in the room.

He looks down on the boy and his hypnotizing eyes, weighing the situation in his mind. He might be relatively cold-hearted when it comes to all the women he's murdered, but this is just a child.

A child that's been staring at my face for the past five minutes or so, he muses to himself, rubbing his forehead to alleviate the dull ache that's growing there.

He squats down closer to the boy, catching sight of a name monogrammed on his jumper. Patrick. "Well, Patrick, my little friend," he sighs as Patrick reaches out a grubby, blood-stained hand and smudges the red face right through the center, "you don't know it yet, but today is your lucky day."

Patrick stares at him then, still silent, and he starts to feel unnerved when the boy's gaze doesn't waver. With that, he quickly stands up, grabbing his bag on the way out and making a swift exit through the back door.

As he climbs into his car a few blocks down, an image of Patrick swims to the front of his brain. Unable to clear his mind, he knows this is a boy he won't soon forget.

ii.

Just over ten years pass by, and he has all but forgotten about little Patrick. That day has become just another memory in a long line of murders, and he's no longer haunted by the quiet little boy with the soul-searching blue eyes.

Until the carnival comes to town, that is. Carnivals and fairs, they've always been a favorite of his when it comes to finding his next victim. No one notices among the vast amounts of people when just one solitary person goes missing.

He's strolling about the carnival grounds, following after a lonely but attractive young woman who's caught his attention, when he sees the sign. He reads the bright, bold words aloud, "Come one, come all! See the Psychic Boy Wonder, Patrick Jane! Only $15 a seat!"

Patrick. It's not exactly an uncommon name, and he wouldn't think anything of it were it not for the sloppily-painted portrait of a teenage boy with blonde curls and blue eyes right in the middle of the sign.

He can't help his curiosity - he has to see what's become of the boy that used to plague his dreams. So he makes his way through the crowd, slipping in behind the curtain and handing the bouncer a twenty dollar bill so he can watch the show.

Patrick stands on a crudely-made wooden stage, lanky and awkward at the age of fourteen, but with keen stage presence that has his audience already captivated by his words.

He watches with crossed arms and sharp eyes as Patrick works the crowd, pulling one young woman on stage with him to "read her mind" as he puts it. He holds onto her wrists to get a read on her pulse, staring her straight in the eyes as he rattles off details about her love life that make the girl blush. The audience applauds, completely amazed, as she nods her assent to everything he says.

He smirks when at least a dozen female hands shoot up after Patrick turns on the charm with a mega-watt smile and asks if anyone else would like a turn. It's no wonder the small tent is so full - someone trained this boy very well on the art of a con.

Patrick's eyes carefully scan the audience, searching for his next victim when they land on him - the only male in the vicinity. He shifts uneasily, but sees no hint of recognition in Patrick's eyes.

"How about you, sir?" Patrick's grin is meant to be welcoming, but he knows better than to be fooled by his innocent looks. He relents after a moment's contemplation, thinking he'll have a bit of fun with the boy whose mother he killed.

The women sigh with disappointment as he walks forward, holding out his palms for Patrick to try and read him. They lock eyes, and he remembers how calm and unbothered, almost cold-hearted this boy was as a toddler in the face of death and blood. It's no surprise he's become a con-man.

"Glad you could join me, sir." Patrick says with a smile. "Shall we begin?"

He nods, already amused. "Please do."

"Great! Now, you..." Patrick's gaze flicks to his designer watch and expensive shoes with such speed that a less observant man wouldn't even have noticed. "I suspect you're a wealthy man, is that right?"

"Quite right, yes."

"Thought so. And you're here at the carnival... on business, yes?"

He nods. He had come here to scout for his next victim, close enough to a business errand.

"Interesting." Patrick's eyes shift to his well-groomed hair and very fitted shirt. "Seeking out a woman, I take it?"

His eyes narrow just slightly, but he agrees. It takes a great measure of seduction at times to lure in the kind of victims he prefers. Looking nice goes a long way to help, though his handsome features have never made the job difficult.

"And this woman you're looking for... have you found her?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You're the psychic, young Mr. Jane - you tell me."

Patrick stares at him for a very long time, those damn eyes seeing straight through him, before he answers. "She escaped you before you could catch her."

He quickly drops his hands, giving Patrick a hard glare before he stands and steps aside. The ladies in the audience are almost silent, their eyes glued to the pair of them, some beginning to give him uneasy looks. He nods stiffly before ducking out of the tent, making quick work of finding his car amidst the chaos of all the kids on sugar highs and the stressed-out parents trying to keep them wrangled.

He drives off to the nearest bar for an easy pick-up - not the kind of woman he wants, but he settles for a drunk girl nursing a few too many bottles after a bad break-up.

Later on, as his gloved hand swipes two slanted eyes across a dingy motel wall, he thinks again of Patrick's eyes. Sharp, observant, cunning, and intelligent. An obsession begins to manifest itself in his mind; it won't leave him alone and it drives him mad if he tries to ignore it. So he gives in.

Patrick Jane is his.

iii.

As the years pass, Patrick begins to rise in fame as word of his "abilities" gets out. It doesn't take long before he is out of the carnie circuit and working as a big-time psychic in Las Vegas.

Simultaneously, his own power begins to build as those in his line of work develop a fear of what he's accomplished, while others are in awe of him and the way he's managed to evade the police after all these years. His network of colleagues, friends, and connections begins to spread rapidly. FBI, local police, doctors, lawyers - soon enough there's hardly a place in California where someone of importance isn't linked to him.

Patrick's new-found celebrity status makes it easy for him to keep track of his budding young con artist. He travels to Vegas quite frequently to watch him, still captivating audiences just by flashing his teeth the way he did seven years ago inside that dingy carnival tent.

He is careful never to get too close, always lingers in the background. He starts to notice the little things after coming to enough shows, like how Patrick will occasionally glance at a pretty girl with dirty-blonde curls who comes to every show, or the recent addition of a shiny silver band on her ring finger.

He is sure to be there when they marry, though they don't know who he is. A simple courthouse wedding in the middle of May, seemingly spur of the moment, but the couple is all smiles and romantic stares. They haven't brought anyone with them, and he, who follows his little protégé around like a puppy, has been called on as a witness - he "just so happens" to be there that day, you see, and they really need someone if he doesn't mind?

A grin breaks over his face when the judge asks him, and of course he agrees. He doesn't much like the idea of sharing Patrick, but how could he say no to that charming smile?

The ceremony is fairly brief, but with the way he catches Patrick beaming at her the entire time, he doubts she cares much about anything at all but the man standing in front of her. He can't decide whether the whole thing makes him feel sick or proud.

He signs their marriage certificate with a flourish, smirking with this renewed feeling of attachment and ownership over Patrick. He shakes the happy couple's hands, accepting their thanks for stepping in with a knowing smile and assuring them that it was his pleasure to help them out.

The significance is completely lost on them as they drive off to some exotic honeymoon, watching him wave through the rearview mirror.

iv.

Three years later, after a call to one of his doctor friends, he breezes right through security at the hospital with someone else's ID badge. Dressed for the part in a set of deep red scrubs and a conveniently disguising surgical mask, he's acting as a neonatal nurse in the labor and delivery ward of the local hospital.

Normally he leaves such menial undercover tasks for one of his newer followers, but on this occasion, it's more of a personal visit.

He weaves his way through the halls, passing by countless hospital rooms with pregnant women screaming in the throes of labor and new mothers cuddling their infants. Occasionally, he passes by waiting rooms with fathers-to-be anxiously pacing back and forth, nervous with the thought of being in charge of raising such a little person.

Finally he reaches the nursery, swiping his ID to allow access to the room. The current nurse on duty looks up as he enters, smiling when she realizes he's here to switch with her and she can finally go home. He smiles back, nodding as she exits the room.

He scans the room, checking the tags on each of the cribs and briefly cooing at the particularly cute babies, before moving on in search of one in particular.

He stops when he sees the name "JANE, CHARLOTTE" printed in big, bold letters across a pink sheet of paper. A soft smile spreads across his face as he reaches down to pick up the sleeping little girl. Only a few days old, she already has a wispy layer of blonde waves on top of her head.

A knock on the window causes him to look up, and his smile grows bigger upon seeing the couple standing behind the glass. Patrick and Angela Jane stand across from him, waving at the little baby in his arms. He walks forward, carefully tilting her toward them so they can take a better look, but his eyes lock on Patrick. The grin on the man's face is contagious, and the sparkle of love and admiration in his eyes is unmistakable. For a moment, he is overcome by a flash of jealousy, but he hides it, instead moving to place the fragile baby back in the crib.

"If you'd like to return to your room, I'll bring Charlotte by in just a few moments," he tells them over the intercom on the wall.

Patrick waves in acknowledgment, guiding Angela back to their room with a gentle hand against the small of her back. He stares after them as they go, his resentful gaze never wavering from Patrick's hands.

Once they turn the corner, he calls for one of the other nurses on the floor to take over so he can deliver Charlotte to her parents. They make their way slowly down the corridor, stopping at room 418 where Patrick and Angela are gathering up their bags.

He gathers Charlotte into his arms, lightly kissing her forehead before he hands her over to Angela. "Your daughter is beautiful," he says, almost reverently.

"I know," Patrick nods, and he waits expectantly for the man to look at him, but his eyes never drift from his daughter's face.

"Time for us to go, baby," Angela whispers in Charlotte's ear, also paying him no attention whatsoever.

He watches with a wistful stare as they exit the room and enter the elevator. Another person he's forced to share Patrick with. His face hardens into a frown.

Charlotte might have his heart for now, but Patrick Jane will always be his.

v.

He stands backstage at a talk show, disguised as part of the crew and making small talk with the other crew members as he munches on some chips. Glancing to the left, he watches as Patrick is fitted with a microphone for his performance and interview.

For the past six years, ever since Charlotte was born, Patrick has been working as a consultant with the police. He assumes that Angela, knowing Patrick's work as a psychic was ultimately a fraud, implored him to do something else, something his daughter could be proud of. So instead of using his "powers" to con people out of their money, he uses them to help the police catch criminals.

An amusing pastime, he thinks, helping the authorities catch people like me. He can see why Angela thinks it a more noble career than giving people false hopes about their dead loved ones.

Just recently, Patrick had been transferred to his own case - Red John, the media calls him. He's not sure he likes it, but he plays along anyway. And that's what this interview is about - him. People are curious, he's told, what Patrick's insights are now that he's been working on the case for a few months. His consulting work has become well-known over the past few years, having gained the highest closing rates in years for the team he's working with. Some consider Patrick Jane to be brilliant, while others scoff at the idea of a psychic being of any real help to the police. Either way, people talk about him, and Patrick Jane has become a household name in California.

As has Red John. He knows the producers of the show are expecting high ratings with tonight's special. Even he is interested to see what Patrick will say, after watching over him all these years. He is the reason for Patrick's success, after all. If he wasn't such a nice guy, Patrick would have been dead long ago.

He leans back against the wall, watching the screen behind the stage as Patrick walks out onto the set, flashing a huge grin at the audience as he waves and shakes hands with the co-hosts.

Then Patrick really gets into it, working the audience and "calling on spirits" as he gives the performance of his career. A lady in the second row bursts into tears as Patrick relays a message from her father, apologizing and asking for her forgiveness. Patrick's eyes are bright, his face lit up in a true gesture of showmanship as he holds his hand out, channeling an unseen energy.

"He's smiling now. Tears of joy." Patrick continues, every eye in the audience on him. "He says, 'God bless you and keep you.'"

Patrick's face goes blank an instant later and his hand drops as he informs her that the spirit of her father has gone. The audience enthusiastically applauds him as he returns to his seat on stage, the co-hosts of the show gushing over how amazing he is.

He continues to look on from the backstage area, a knowing glint in his eyes. Pathetic, the lot of them, believing in all that drivel. But there's also a sense of pride as he watches on, impressed with the smooth manner he handles their questions.

He straightens up when they turn the discussion to the "scary serial killer" Patrick is hunting, taking a sip from the glass of water in his hand, and he is attentive to every word. If only they knew how close he was, he thinks with a smirk.

At first he feels smug, being described with such powerful, fear-inducing words as "demonic" and "evil", but the feeling quickly subsides as Patrick continues.

"He's an ugly, tormented little man," Patrick laments, sounding like he almost feels sorry for him. "A lonely soul... sad. Very sad."

His fingers curl around his water glass, bitterness building up inside as Patrick continues to patronize him, using words like "weak" and "powerless" and painting a picture of an insane man that exerts his power over women because it's the only thing he's capable of doing.

He seethes, the glass shattering in his hand under the weight of his anger. Oblivious to the pointed and confused stares of those around him, he storms out of the building, his head swimming with thoughts of red as he marches to his car.

How dare you! He thinks, slamming the door and racing out of the parking lot. I made you what you are! You are mine!

His body is operating on auto-pilot, and it's not too long before he finds himself outside of Patrick's house.

Shaking with rage, he grabs his duffel bag and heads toward the house. As he whips out his knife, only one thought is on his mind.

He will more than make up for the day he ever decided to let Patrick Jane live.

THE END