A/N: This idea came to me literally out of nowhere. So I'm not entirely sure if it makes much sense, but I know I own it. However, I do not own the Mentalist.

He pressed his hand against the damp surface of the mirror and watched as drops of vapor left trails of clarity down the glass. Glancing up, he caught his own gaze, wide and searching for the lines in his face, ones which weren't there before last night, or even, before his shower. It seemed to him that his face grew more weary every hour now. He swallowed, looking down into the sink.

Craig O'Laughlin could not remember the last time he had felt such an uncontrollable urge to vomit. He saw terrible things due to his occupation, the twisted and depraved things human beings could do to each other with no remorse. He'd met people who had seemed so harmless and befriended them, only to find out that there was no bounds to a truly evil person's deception or depravity.

Yes, he had seen it all. And it had left him convinced that he could trust no one. He could go to work, he could be civil; even outwardly friendly. But he guarded himself, reminded himself with gruesome images every time he felt a connection to anyone.

And then he had met her.

He'd known her father to be a coach he'd adored, long before his opinion of the world had become so polluted. She had beautiful, warm eyes, and hair that was soft and smelled sweetly of something like Christmas.

She reminded him of everything from his youth: freedom and honesty and those funny little smiles his mother would sometimes give him. Peaceful.

He asked her to marry him. Gave him his mother's necklace. Kissed her every day, called her every night. Encouraged her, and she encouraged him. He had loved her. A few evenings before, he'd brought up the subject of children.

"Well, how many do you see us having together?"

"As many as we want."

"Tell me," she'd giggled.

"Five," he'd answered, nuzzling her neck.

"We'll see."

He wondered, sometimes, where this fondness for her had come from. It just bubbled up from nowhere, and he couldn't control himself, despite what he knew to be true about the world, and every single person in it. And Grace had to be no different. Everything about her drew him in, but his instincts screamed at him that sooner or later, he would have to get out. He was right.

"You have to take care of her. It's only a matter of time. If you don't do it yourself, I'll have to, and you don't want that, do you?"

The words had chilled him, stung him. All the things he'd done for Red John, but now he'd been asked to cut short another life. Another innocent person. And for what?

"I'm asking that you do this, out of love. It is better that you do this, O'Laughlin. It is better."

But he hadn't been convinced.

He looked into the mirror again. His eyes were wet. He thought of Grace; he thought of Madeleine Hightower and Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane. Grace admired them all, especially Lisbon. But Grace loved him. She loved him. Despite everything, he loved her back.

Closing his eyes, he made his decision.

-:-

Grace Van Pelt and her fiance paused to greet the two police officers outside the hiding place of Madeleine Hightower. O'Laughlin looked at her, and he saw the look in her eyes, and only he knew what it meant. Something was on her mind, something that had caused her to become suspicious. Could she know what he'd been mulling over in front of his mirror only hours earlier?

He followed her inside the gate, then paused to tell her he'd forgotten his phone. Her eyes asked him a question, but he couldn't seem to answer it. He wished he didn't have to disappoint her. Grace turned away to continue walking toward the house, and O'Laughlin returned to the police officers.

Before they could speak, he apologized.

"I want you both to know, I do not do this without remorse." He shot them both, took a deep breath, and breathlessly returned to Grace.

"You're beautiful," he said, and she smiled, convinced.

The dread made him feel sick again.

-:-

They've barely made it through the door when Teresa Lisbon answers her phone. He knows who it is she's talking to, and he knows what Jane will tell her. He sees Hightower on the stairs, sees Grace's smile, and he knows he only has seconds. Lisbon turns to him, her face saying everything. Panicked, he draws his gun, and pulls the trigger.

Now he's aiming at his beloved, his Grace, with her red hair, and her soft eyes, and she's searching his face, looking for his intentions. Hightower is at her side, also aiming a weapon at him, her expression fierce and dark and blank all at once.

He'd been sent here to kill her. Madeleine Hightower. So that Red John wouldn't have to. Because if O'Laughlin was honest with himself, he didn't want Red John to do it. So that Red John could continue carrying out some semblance of an existence. It had only struck him, just this morning (or had it been weeks ago? He didn't know) that if Red John truly loved him, then a life without him would be nearly unbearable. But O'Laughlin knows that killing Hightower, in front of so many witnesses, Grace included, will result in his death within days. Or even minutes.

If he was truly loved, how could Red John ask him to do this thing that will surely cost him his life?

And so he points his gun at Red John, and he watches her face contort as he speaks.

"Sorry about this, Grace, truly. I've grown genuinely fond of you," he whispers. He sees the glint in her eye, as she realizes he's turned on her. He will no longer play her games. No longer be her puppet. And he knows she can see he has no intention of killing either her, or Madeleine Hightower. "It's not you, it's me."

A shot rings out, and it's just what both of them need.

Hightower and Red John empty their weapons into O'Laughlin's body. He falls to the floor. Grace kneels beside him with tears in her eyes. O'Laughlin wishes they were for him, but he knows they're for Hightower and Lisbon, to save her own pretty face. She'd carried on with her act of innocence since childhood, and he feels like weeping for her instead.

He thought of the people he had killed for her. He thought of the people he'd tortured for her, because she'd needed him to. He thought of the deception of the world, the evil of human nature, and how one beautiful face had convinced him that controlled chaos is necessary for the world to hold itself together. There could be no light without darkness. Her sweet, silver tongue had lied and lied, and make him love her.

"Grace..." he breathes. And his last action is to reach up, up, up, just as he feels the rest of him following. He clasps his mother's necklace around Grace's porcelain neck. His mother, with her smiles and warmth and scent. The one person who had truly and always loved him.

The woman who had taught him to be truly righteous.

He ripped the angel's necklace from the reddest devil's neck.

He thought of the vapor on his mirror. He thought of the air. And he went to it.

A/N: Yes, I know. I'm a sad, sad person. And nobody likes sad people...so write me a review and make me happy!