A/N: My first fic for the Mentalist. Finally got around the to watching the first episode, and this was inspired (loosely) by a dream in which my brain attempted to fill in the story when I wasn't able to finish it due to internet issues.

I ended up writing this all today, during English this morning, and then finishing it during psychology this afternoon (which was very strange, because it happened to be a lecture on memory and how memory is affected by traumatic or emotional experiences, and there just seemed to be a lot of coincidences between what my prof was saying ad what I was writing.)

Anyway, enough of my explanations. This is a one-shot, and probably my first one-shot to actually STAY a one-shot, because I can't think of any way to extend it.

"I know it's hard, but I need you to tell me everything you remember."

"It's not going to help you find him. You already know everything."

"Mr Jane, please-"

"I just don't see how I can add anything. You saw it, it was the same as all the other scenes. A smiley face drawn in blood on the wall, over..."

Jane's voice caught in his throat. He couldn't say it, not yet.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jane, it's protocol, I need to get your statement."

Jane sighed and slumped down in his chair. He just didn't have the energy to get out of this one.

"I should have known something was wrong as soon as I got in the door. It was too quiet."

He went through the door, a smile plastered on his face, still elated by the success of his interview, looking forward to what his wife was going to say, and his daughter if she was still awake. They would pretend it wasn't a big deal at first, but he'd see right through it, and they knew he would.

His footsteps echoed loudly in the empty house.

"I didn't start to think something was wrong until I got to the top of the stairs."

He continued on up the stairs, trying not to make too much noise. His daughter had probably decided it would be a good joke to hide on him. Well, two could play at that game. His smile grew wider, and he listened intently for any sign of which room they were in.

But there was no noise. No giggle, and no following "hush!"

There should have been.

"I noticed a note on the bedroom door."

He didn't know why, but a pit of dread started growing in his stomache, and the smile slowly fell from his face when he saw the piece of paper taped to the bedroom door. There was no reason for that note to be there, she would have left a note on the front door, or the bannister, where he was sure to see it as soon as he got home. Something was wrong.

"Do you remember what the note said?"

"Yes."

Of course he remembered. The words had been burned into his memory, repeating themselves over and over in every moment of silence, never letting him forget.

"Dear Mister Jane. I do not like to be slandered in the media, especially by a dirty money-grubbing fraud. If you were really a psychic, instead of a dishonest litte worm, you wouldn't need to open the door to see what I've done to your lovely wife and child."

He faltered over the last words.

"What did you do then?"

"I opened the door."

Jane reached the note, and after only the first few words, felt as though his stomache had dropped through the floor. He continued reading, hoping it was all a dream, as words jumped out at him from the page. His eyes skimmed them faster than his brain could read. He knew what it said long before he finished, but he wouldn't open the door, wouldn't stop reading, not until he had reached the end. Just in case. Just in case he had seen wrong.

He gripped the door handle with a trembling hand, not wanting to open it, not wanting to know, thinking maybe, just maybe, if he tore down the note, left the house, came back in the morning, it would all be gone, it would not have been real. But that one, small part of his mind that needed to know, needed to make sure, took over, and he opened the door.

He was greeted by a happy, smiling face, drawn in blood on the wall.

Jane put his head in his hand, trying to rid himself of the image that he knew would never leave.

"If it's any consolation, I know how you feel."

"It's not, and you don't," Jane replied, smiling grimly at the line he'd heard so many people say, but had never imagined he'd be saying himself.

"I do understand. I-"

"Lost your wife," Jane said, making a guess. He searched the man's face. His eyes were sad, but not haunted or angry, not looking for revenge or justice. "She was sick, wasn't she." When there was no answer, Jane assumed he was right, and continued. "It's very different. Very different. Her death was natural, it wasn't your fault. My wife and child... they were murdered, and it was because of me. Because of my arrogance."

Jane could see that face, see that smile, grinning at him in blood from every wall.

"Do you know what it's like? Do you know what it's like to come home and see a smiley face painted on the wall with your wife's blood? Do you know what it's like to know that is was your fault?"

"It wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was, it was my fault," his voice started to break. The faces closed in on him, moving around him, mocking him.

your fault

yours

it was your fault

It Was Your Fault

your fault

IT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT

Jane put his head in his hands, trying to block it all out, trying to forget the image seared into his mind, weeping for his lost wife and child.

He felt a hand on him.

"Jane? Jane, are you okay?"

He opened his eyes to find himself looking up at the ceiling of the CBI office from his familiar spot on the couch. He was sweating and shaking, and could still hear that voice, whispering in his ear.

it was your fault

He passed a hand quickly over his face to wipe away the tears he hoped Lisbon hadn't noticed. She probably had, and he prayed silently that she wouldn't say anything.

"Are you okay?"

Lisbon was crouched beside the couch, looking concerned.

"Yeah, just a nightmare."

"About what?" he could tell she already knew what it had been about.

"I don't remember."

...dishonest little worm...

"You kept muttering something... 'It was my fault.' "

"Was I?" Jane asked, almost cheerfully. He hoped it would be enough to frustrate Lisbon and get her to leave it at that.

It was. She gave him a look, then got up and dropped a stack of papers on Van Pelt's desk. Jane noticed that there was no light coming in the windows, and no one else seemed to be there. They all must have gone home.

"You were right by the way, about the murderer." Lisbon said, turning to him.

"Was I?" he asked again.

...dirty money-grubbing fraud...

"Van Pelt is now totally and absolutely convinced that you're psychic," Lisbon laughed.

...If you were really psychic...

"Is she?"

Lisbon sighed in frustration.

"Enough! Just go home, take your sleeping pills, and have a real night's sleep for once. I don't want to see you here still tomorrow morning," she said as she walked past him and grabbed her coat and bag.

"Does that mean I have permission to come in late tomorrow?" he called after her.

...you wouldn't need to open the door...

"You know what I mean, Jane!" she slammed the door behind her.

...to see what I've done...

He lay back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, and the smile hovering before his eyes.

...to your lovely wife and child.

A/N: Well, I hope you enjoyed it. I'm rather depressed now... but please review! I love getting reviews (who doesn't?). I wasn't quite sure how to write Jane's character for this, since it's not quite what we usually see from him... So I don't know if he's quite right. I also didn't know if the murder and the interview were on the same night... so I just assumed they were, since that's what it seemed like in the show.