For most parts, this story is what we Germans call a "kammerspiel" (leo gives me "intimate play" as an English translation). Two people in a secluded place, many words, much inner monologue and dialogue- you get the picture. It starts very angsty and gets fluffier and more comforting towards the end.

It's rated M not only for the adult situations (which will ensue, be assured ;D) but also for a fair amount of violence in the first two chapters.

You will notice that everybody in this story seems to recognize Red John, but I never reveal who he is. That's because in this case, I've not been interested in speculating who he might be. I just take it as a fact that he is someone we already know, that's enough for me. I'm far more interested in Jane's and Lisbon's emotional landscape here, at least in this fic.

Be warned: lots of ANGST, violence, adult situations.

If you feel slightly depressed, don't read this now… wait for tomorrow, and read chapters one and two as one. If you have nerves like steel… go on and enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist, and I don't make any money from fan fiction.

Chapter 1-Battlefields

Senior Special Agent Teresa Lisbon watches the thin band of blood which forms around her wrists and tries to feel every single scratch of pain.

Her flesh feels raw, the ache a fiery sensation burning through her veins. It's almost comforting when her cramping legs are so cold, icy concrete biting into her skin like a million teeth, teeth of sharks, dragons, monsters born from nightmares.

But she can't lose her mind. It is paramount that she keeps her sanity, so she fights, relentless, focused, with her eyes wide open.

She tries not to think about the world outside her cage, to forget that there has been a different existence. She silences the dreams, the hope, everything that distracts her from keeping her shit together.

Instead, she mimics every trick she has ever seen Patrick Jane use: breathing. Counting one when she inhales. Two when she exhales. Nothing matters but the fluttering breath in her lungs. Scratching at the dry walls of her bronchia.

She works on her memory palace, trying to file down every inch of the cold ground beneath her, the gloomy basement around her. The radiator she is chained to. She has some leeway, enough so that she can rub her nose or her forehead. She can touch the rough surface of the chilly heater, imperfectly painted metal, rusted in places, unused for years. She learns its texture, unforgiving hardness, sharp ridges.

Her hands have started to tremble, and she doesn't like it at all. Her lip is split, she tastes the coppery tang of her own blood.

She doesn't fear Red John's return, for looking at him gives her something to hate. It is a good thing, feels harsh and alive, she concentrates on it while he hurts her, drags the tip of a knife down her skin. She never takes her eyes from him while the blood runs down her arms, and it delights her when it unnerves him.

He is good. He's always been- she has never guessed that he could be the serial killer they were hunting all the time, and obviously Jane hadn't, either.

Jane.

No, she shouldn't think about him now. Somehow, she doesn't want him in her head while Red John tortures her, Jane is hers, and she won't do anything that will make the killer aware of her feelings for him.

So she tries to perfect her memory palace instead. Water spot in the corner. Queen of hearts. Her breathing is quiet and calm, and she thinks that maybe she should try to get some sleep without succumbing to hopeful dreams, when the door creaks open.

Metal doors, as rusty as the derelict decay around her.

And suddenly, Red John is right in front of her.

He's always coming close, although she can move her arms, even her hands a bit. She never does. She's as meek as a little lamb, but she simply turns off his words in his mind. Muting his voice. The movements of his mouth are disgusting, she feels bile rising in her throat. She knows every line on his face by now. She hates him so much that for the first time she can imagine killing as a pleasure.

Jane's face rises in her mind like a fiery phoenix. She blocks the picture. Her mind has become a weapon, her consultant would be so proud of her.

Red John's ranting is still silent, she's becoming better and better at this. He underestimates her, and she feels a secret smile deep inside of her, blossoming like a flower. Maybe she will die. But maybe he won't win.

Her lips are so dry, she feels the skin rip, more blood flowing onto her tongue.

She drinks the water he gives her. Feels the pain when he cuts her arms. Tracing it. Every second. She wants to be there for her own torture, doesn't want to miss anything that could glue her to reality. She is still human. He hasn't defeated her yet.

He gives her drugs, and she can't pull the tube from her veins. The substance makes her panic, induces hallucinations, but she uses Jane's tricks- focuses her mind until she can almost block it. Her pulse is racing. The blood is flowing. But she finds a peaceful spot inside her where she hides, curled into a ball, while the storm rages around her. Where she can watch herself from afar.

Look how afraid she is. How her dark red blood dries to brown stains on her arms, as if the liquid has been stopped in mid-flow.

Red John leaves.

Her breathing is too fast, hyperventilation. Not good.

One- inhale. Two- exhale. She stops her panting, feels dizzy from the drugs. But she smiles. Way to go, boy.

I'm stronger than you think I am.

She decides to take the dreamless slumber now. She needs every ounce of energy for this battle.

But the images inside her head won't let her sleep for hours.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Grace van Pelt's hair is unwashed, and she hates it. It feels heavy on her head, dragging her down like wet cloth. But she can't take a break.

Her fingertips feel chafed from flying over the keys, desperately trying to find a clue, a trace, a way to find the boss. The woman who has done so much for all of them. Their lifeline. Their beacon.

Grace buries her face inside her hands, trying to battle the rage that devours her like a blazing flame whenever she thinks too hard.

"Have something to eat, Grace," Rigsby says.

She looks at him. He's pale and tired, an expression of disbelief and defeat on his face.

Nobody believes that Lisbon is still alive. But Grace refuses to give up.

Her eyes wander over the bullpen, so still and alien, changed now that Lisbon is gone. Her gaze meets Patrick Jane's quiet form on the couch, and the old sensation of anger boils up again. Almost hatred.

She hates him these days. Because while the team frantically tries to find the boss, Jane is so calm it annoys her no end.

His eyes are closed. His hands loosely folded on his upper stomach. His lips slightly parted, his posture that of a man in the embrace of relaxation, maybe even sleep.

A painful pang races through Grace's body. How can he, after all Lisbon has done for him?

Grace can't bear his calm, the quiet contemplation, the resignation with which he seems to accept his closest friend's fate.

With a desperate wince, Grace turns her eyes to the screen and continues her search. She has to find her, has to unearth some clues.

Before the world stopped turning.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon lets her hands wander over the old heater, learning every inch of rusty metal. Who knows what it will be good for in the end?

Anything that keeps her busy, focused, sane.

Her fingertip catches on a sharp edge, she can feel the drop of blood forming on her skin. What's that? Some kind of shard, still connected to the metal, but only barely- could she pry it loose?

She tries to push her fingers beneath it, she hurts herself, blood is running over her hands, dripping onto the floor. What if Red John sees it?

Doesn't matter, she is dead anyway.

She ignores the pain, tightens her grip around the sharp little shard, tries to pull it lose. The chains tug at her wrists, she ignores it until the ache is like a cloud, surrounding her from every side.

She continues. Pulling, digging. So much blood, how severely is she hurt? Not too much, she can stand it. Can stand it.

Sharp metal, rust is falling to the floor, mingling with her blood.

The sound it makes when the shard finally comes free is unremarkable, just a little ping, but her stomach gives a firm lurch. The little piece of metal is hardly longer than her palm, but it's pointed like a dagger. A weapon. She caresses the rough surface and forces herself to collect her thoughts.

Will Red John see the small puddle of blood on the floor, realize what she's up to?

The room is dark where she's sitting, she tries to move her numb legs, without much success. She knows he's paying attention, underestimating him is stupid.

As if on cue, the door opens, and Red John stands in front of her. She drops the shard just in time, behind the heater. He would have to lie on his stomach to see it.

Lisbon forces herself to look him straight in the eye, showing her contempt for him in ugly, blazing colors. How could they have trusted him? He's managed to fool even Jane all these years.

Jane.

She swallows the thought, shaking her head to get rid of any weakness that might show up. She can't let that distract her now.

This time, she hears his voice.

"Let's see how long you can resist me, agent Lisbon," he says, putting the IV on, "Kristina Frye was such a big disappointment, believe me. Then again, she made herself a victim, while you are a thing between Patrick Jane…"

She blocks his voice. How could he have fooled them? He's pathetic, and his ranting is all the same.

She concentrates on his neck. Carotid artery. Her only chance.

Where is this fucking artery? She feels the dizziness the drug is inducing, her panic rises, and she empties her mind, concentrates on her breathing. Her hands are trembling like mad, but she has enough sense to half-hide them beneath the heater, concealing the blood she has spilled.

She only has one chance, one try, one thrust with her self-made dagger. But she can't do it now. She sees mad trolls with red eyes, ogling her as if they want to devour her, extinguish her. They are not here, she whispers in her mind, they are not here. Her throat is so dry every swallow burns like fire.

Where on the neck is the carotid artery?

She has to take him down before he starts the IV drip, before he can use the drugs on her. Only one try. If they are far enough from civilization for him to get help, it might work.

Red John looks at her, his eyes flat and icy. She tries to read his stare, but the drugs make her fuzzy and nauseous, her world already evaporating into the mad frenzy of her hallucinations.

She gives in to them, allows herself to be utterly scared for a moment, because that's what he wants to see, isn't it?

I'm giving him his heart's desire.

And for once, she isn't swallowing the scream, lets it bubble up until it fills the air around her, mingling with Red John's laughter.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Patrick Jane manages a smile and a playful wink for agent Carson's new secretary. They ride the lift in silence, and he is grateful when she gets out, leaving him to his thoughts. The moment the doors close behind her, he slumps against the wall, closing his eyes to fight the pain.

His attic is cool and lonely, but he hardly feels anything, his skin like a pelt belonging to a different creature.

He can't give in to the countless dark voices inside of him now, can't break down again. It would make him useless in this final hunt, and he absolutely can't be.

But he needs release, can't go on without it, not a single step, so he stops in the middle of the room and allows panic and despair to rise like a poisonous mist, to engulf him completely. He screams, as loud as he can, the sound painful and wild all around him, a storm of emotions he can never show.

Later, he hits the wall until his knuckles are bloody. Afterwards, he's able to think again.

He lies down on his make-shift bed and stares at the ceiling, his mind wandering here and there while he lets it play. Always the best way to success.

The pain comes back, making him sob, but he has to fight it. He is her only chance.

She can make it, he whispers into the darkness, she's stronger than every other person I know. She can make it. I have to start believing, now.

He closes his eyes and lets his overactive mind sniff around the one single question: Who and where is Red John?

He has to solve the puzzle right now, or his powerful little angel is lost. She can't be, can't die, because if Red John destroys her, everything will come tumbling down. The team would scatter. And he would become insane.

He can already feel it, the slow seep of madness. The longer she's gone, the more attractive his own death seems- his only chance of nothingness. Of escape.

How could he have let this happen?

He's never told her what he feels for her, and now she could be anywhere slaying his dragons, with only a shady notion of what she means to him. He sobs once more before he forces himself to concentrate on the only thing that matters right now: Red John.

I can find you, Teresa Lisbon. I have to find you.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon is panting slightly.

The effect of the drugs has worn off, but she can't go through many more of these sessions, or she will start to lose it.

She recalls medical training, advanced first aid. Carotid artery. In her mind, she practices the stab a million times.

Her hands are chained, but she has some freedom of movement. Red John trusts that she can't find any kind of weapon, and she's starved, weak. She won't allow this to stop her.

He has to come very close to make the kill possible, but he often does, likes to smell her fear, to show her how daring he can become with her, what a poor opponent she is in his eyes.

Jane has been right: he's arrogant, he makes mistakes.

Jane.

She closes her eyes and lets the pain and the longing wash over her, but no… she can't think about him now. Can't allow herself to imagine a life beyond these walls.

Even if she kills Red John, she will most likely die. Nobody knows where she is, she is all alone. She doesn't dare to make too much noise, but she would like to hear the echo of her own voice. She hasn't spoken in months. Weeks? She doesn't know, has lost all sense of time and space.

She has to focus, Red John will be here soon.

It's not much later when she hears him open the door.

He starts babbling immediately, but she doesn't want to hear him and the rush of her blood is loud enough to drown any other sound.

Suddenly she feels every little sensation in sharp acuteness: her icy legs. The pain in her wrists. The sharp blade of her little dagger, the rusty metal biting into her palm.

One try.

She looks at his neck, not openly, out of the corner of her eye. She can't see his pulse. He's calm, composed. The cold bastard.

He kneels down next to her to put up the IV. He's careless, and she almost smiles. The room is too dark for him to see what she holds in her hands, but that will change soon, and she can't let him administer the drugs.

Everything happens in slow motion. His skin mapped out like a treasure chart. A huge red X marking her goal.

She grips the shard tighter. Smells her own blood. Stops the tremor in her hands. And rams the blade into his neck as hard as she can.

The arterial spray hits her right in the face, and she gasps, gags, shocked at how easily the sharp metal slides through flesh and tissue.

Red John's eyes become wide, he's touching the little shard, and there's so much blood, its smell is filling the whole room, she gags helplessly, but damn, she needs to be prepared.

He tries to grab her throat, but his movements get erratic fast, and she musters every ounce of strength she has left in her numb legs, forcing her muscles to move for this one strike.

She kicks him in the stomach, his gasp tells her she's hit the solar plexus.

He collapses, a pang of triumph and revulsion fills her up, and Red John, serial killer, mastermind, bleeds out on the cold concrete floor.

It's over so fast she's stunned.

The blood runs beneath her thighs, so much red everywhere, she can taste the coppery tang, her face is covered in it. She sobs and laughs all at the same time, before she sobers up fast.

Her throat is dry, and she knows how she is going to die: of thirst.

How will it feel, dying of thirst? She has no idea.

She searches Red John's pockets for a key, something to help her open the lock on her chains. But it's a futile hope, he doesn't carry anything with him except the drugs. She experiments with the needle, then the little shard she has just used to kill, but she isn't Patrick Jane, can't pick the lock.

Finally, she settles calmly against the heater and stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the smell of blood and decay all around her.

For the first time since she's been abducted, she allows the dreams to intrude, thinks about the real world outside her cage.

Jane.

His hands, his scent. The annoying drawl his voice takes on when he doesn't want to tell her about his plans. His lies. His secrets. His brutal honesty. The beautiful trust that has built her world.

A little tear trickles down her cheek, and she smiles. Will he be mad that she has killed the killer? That she hasn't left Red John for him? Well, Mr. Perfect can go fuck himself.

She chuckles and wishes that she had touched him more often, hugged him, held his hand. She hardly knows how he feels, and a woebegone sadness creeps into her heart.

Teresa Lisbon closes her eyes and waits for her death.

TBC

I know- mean. I didn't take special care with Red John's character, I know, I was far more interested in Lisbon… sorry. Next chapter is up tomorrow! Please, leave feedback- you wouldn't believe the dimensions of my general insecurity, friend!