» Patrick Jane

People usually know what happened to him. Not because he brags about it, not because he talk about himself to everyone, but because he was well known before the event.

Patrick Jane, the infamous mentalist. The man who would talk to the dead. The man who’s reveal if you father really loved you or not in TV.

Obviously, to him, those were all lies. A way to gain money and brag about his talent for reading people like open books.

When the question about John Red dropped, he didn’t really think twice. He didn’t feel anything else than the glory of the applause juste a fe seconds ago. He openly mocked the serial killer, describing him like an ugly person, from the inside and the outside without a second thought.

He felt invincible at that moment.

That feeling quickly disappeared when he read the note on his door. When he opened the door of his unusually quiet house. When he saw John Red’s bloody smile on the wall.

Nothing has been the same since. He managed to get out of the psyche ward, but the guilt never faded.

He just buried it all under layers of sarcasms and stupid jokes to Lisbon.

Now, six years later, he rolls his eyes as Lisbon drives to the small town where a murder happened.

“Cho agreed. It’s not like I robbed him,” he grinned at her, head tilted to the side, as he referred to the bet he made with their colleague Cho—because Jane obviously knew he was going to win those 47 cents.

His amused face died fast when he arrived to the crime scene.

A man and his daughter killed. This wasn’t strange, even though the girl being a kid was heart breaking. No, what really struck Jane was all the similarities between him and the man.

Blond, in his forties, playing mediums in the town. He swallowed.

And the daughter—his heart stopped for a second when he realised how alike she looked of her own daughter. When she was still alive.

He looked up at the John Red’s signature on the wall, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. He wouldn’t let anyone see how disturbed all that made him feel—well Lisbon senses something was off but whatever. A man like him killed with his daughter like his, by John Red…

The door opening stopped him from his thoughts. He turned toward it, his charming smile coming back to rest on his lips until he saw your face.

His knees bucked.

You looked exactly like his wife. A few traits slightly difference but overall? He could mistake you for her easily. And, talking about Patrick Jane, that’s a lot.

He shakes his head as everyone in the room turns to him with their expression puzzled. You can’t be her—you can’t be like her. He probably forget her face with time, it’s the only way…

But he remembers the picture of you he kept under his pillow.

Same face. Same height. Fuck. Same eyes looking at him with concern.

He let outs a broken laugh. It’s as if the scenario took turn. Exactly what happened to his family, but this time, the husband is dead and the wife is alive.

“Who,” his voice cracks, but he couldn’t care less. His eyes are on you, no one else in the room matters, “Who the fuck are you.”