Author's notes:

Thank you to two great writers and friends, make-mine-a-kiaora and Sue Shay, for the opportunity to work with and learn from them. I especially appreciate make-mine-a-kiaora's critique of this story. (Sue was unable to due to scheduling.) Check out make-mine-a-kiaora's post-Red John story in the form of diary entries, "Dear Diary," and her other current story, "Muddy Melt Water"; and also check out Sue Shay's series "Mentalist 2pt0 Drabble Collection" (I favorited these in my profile for easy access.)

Please note: The tone of this story differs from other Mentalist stories that I've written.

Few songs can match the despair, hopelessness, and regret of "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning," written by David Mann and Bob Hilliard in 1955. The song conveys an aching beauty. Listening to the Frank Sinatra version, I thought about how much the lyrics could apply to Patrick Jane after the events of episodes 6x16, "Violets," and 6x17, "Silver Wings of Time."

I do not own the TV show The Mentalist and get no compensation from it. This story is written purely for entertainment purposes only.

After Angela and Charlotte died, sleep never came easily for Patrick Jane. Only with the death of Red John did he begin to return to even semi-normal sleep patterns. To his surprise, he had finally begun to be fully rested again in Texas. Until it happened. Or rather, until they happened. Since then he descended into depression again, albeit for a new reason. Even though seeing her with him around the office or at some nearby restaurant during the day sent daggers through Jane's heart, the pain welled up most at night. Now he sat alone in the Airstream, unable to do anything other than stare at the cold, blank wall. Alone, bereft of the one person who mattered to him, he knew that he had only himself to blame.

It's my own fault. I never moved on. I took her for granted. I failed to see what was right in front of my eyes and in my own heart.

Every night he traipsed back to his aluminum-sided prison to wallow in what might have been. A loneliness seized him that no mind trick could hold at bay.

And then two weeks ago the phone calls started. How odd that he could speak most freely about his life and about her at 2am and share his true feelings. Although he knew he shouldn't, he actually enjoyed each nightly interlude. Nothing good could come of it, but he felt liberated nonetheless.

The ring of his phone startled Jane from his thoughts. For a moment he stared at it across the darkness, its flashing light reflecting off the surface of his kitchenette table. Tapping his lips with his index finger, he regarded the phone as if it were a birthday gift to unwrap. Taking a deep breath, he picked it up and flicked it on. A female voice he knew well purred in his ear.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"You know you're not."

"Well, you never know. There's always the chance…"

"Not with me. You know that." Jane took a neutral tone with her, not one with any hint of self-pity.

"There could have been. There could yet be."

Her words stirred a feeling in him that had lain dormant. Jane the seducer, a creature that he had kept under wraps for years, surfaced.

"You intrigue me. Is that an offer? I didn't think you were in town."

The moment of silence on the other end of the line suggested that he had caught her off-guard. Her change of subject confirmed that.

"So, how did your meeting with Marcus go tonight?" she asked.

"You're asking me about Marcus?"

"I am. Ever since you told me yesterday you were going to talk with him, I've wanted to hear your report of what happened. You are going to tell me, aren't you?" The way her tongue curled around her words stirred a physical change in Jane. Now it was a question of who the bigger seducer was.

He drew in a deep breath.

"It's like I said last night. It was a man-to-man talk, Patrick Jane to Marcus Pike."

"You promised to tell me the details."

"I did and I will. I made three statements. First, I stated that I, Patrick Jane, had loved Teresa Lisbon for years."

He heard a gasp. Then silence engulfed the other end of the phone line. After three beats Jane at last heard something. Her voice quavered.

"You said that out loud?"

"I did."

"How did he react?"

"He nodded and told me that he knew."

Jane heard her draw in a deep breath.

"Then what?"

"Second, I told him that I'd had my chance and never took it. I was a fool."

"You're not a fool, Patrick Jane. You have your shortcomings, but that's not one of them."

"Thank you. I take that as a compliment. Third, I stated that I'd never stand in the way of Teresa Lisbon's happiness. I told Marcus he was the better man, and as much as I hated to do so, I was stepping back."

"You said that?"

"I did."

"I must admit, I find a selfless act like that sexy."

"Really?"

"Really. You've gotten me, shall I say, all hot and bothered now."

He sensed that now was his chance.

"Too bad."

"What do you mean 'too bad'?"

Jane smiled to himself. He'd hooked her.

"Too bad you aren't in town. I'd like to…see where things might go with us. Oh well."

Now he expected the moment of silence he heard on the other end before she spoke.

"Who said I wasn't nearby?"

"I heard…"

"You heard wrong. A girl needs to keep a sense of mystery about her."

"You do that well, my dear."

"What if I told you I could be at the door of your Airstream in a half hour?"

"You're not afraid of being seen…by someone?"

"I'm not. And I know you'll never say anything. You're intrigued. You want to indulge something that's lurked in your mind for years. I can tell. I dare say you're looking forward to this as much as I am."

She was right about that.

"I can't wait to see you. Hurry."

"I'm on my way as we speak. I'll knock on your door in thirty minutes."

"Make it twenty-five. I await you, Erica Flynn."

To be continued.

Author's notes:

Erica Flynn appeared in episodes 3x19, "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," and 4x15, "War of the Roses."

The story concludes with Chapter 2.