Title: Maroon Memories
Fandom: The Mentalist
Rating: PG
Length: 371 words
Content notes: Set during the final scene of episode 4.10 – Fugue In Red; spoilers for that episode.
Author notes: Thank you to bluealoe for being an amazing beta! Hopefully I got the spoiler code right.
Summary: Lisbon’s thoughts as (skip) Jane’s memory returns. “Woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.” Ecclesiastes, 4.10.


He’s remembered.

She can see it, as he stands there in the doorway, see it in everything about him – the way he stops short, the way he stands there… and isn’t it ironic, how much he taught her to see these things? She wishes she could be somewhere – anywhere – else. That they were somewhere else; that his memories had returned in the hospital, or in the office, or anywhere but here, staring at the smiley face painted with his family’s blood. But they hadn’t. That was why they were here.

Could it have been different? What would have happened if she’d ignored the doctors, and told Jane about his wife and daughter, about Red John? Would it have helped? Would he have remembered then? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Will she always wonder about that?

No. That’s not what she’ll always ask herself. She’ll always wonder if this whole thing could have been avoided. What if she’d pulled him out of the water quicker? (I’d been as quick as I could). What if she’d realized sooner that he was missing? (He often wandered off). What if she’d stopped him from going off alone in the first place? (As if I’ve ever been able to stop him from doing exactly as he pleases).

What if… what if she had just let him leave? Let him move on to a new life?

No. She couldn’t have done that. She couldn’t have let him live a lie, especially not one that was already beginning to break.

He’s looking at her now. Even in the dark corridor, she can see the pain in his face.

“I’m sorry.”

Such trite-sounding words. She’s said them so often, to so many grieving families. And she’s meant them… but the meaning is different this time. I’m sorry I did this. I’m sorry I had to do it.

He’s looking away again, looking back at the grisly face on the wall. She could be somewhere else. She could leave. All she’d have to do is step back. He might even want it, want her to leave him alone in his grief.

Almost unconsciously, her hand clasps around the cross at her neck, as it did when he’d nearly drowned.

She steps forward.