This originally started as a Christmas present for iloveplotbunnies, and ended up as more of a project. This is the first of five installments, each portraying one of the CBI members as Red John. Some are lengthy, like this one. Others are very short, like the next one.

Rated M for smut and violence, as well as implied violence. Smut is not in every chapter, but definitely in this one.

For this installment, I used a psychological disorder and twisted it a bit to fit my literary purposes. So yes, I am aware, that it is not entirely accurate.

Happy Holidays! :]


The basement is dark, nearly black. His eyes are cat-like, so navigating the dark space isn't an issue. Her eyes have adjusted, but only to see vague outlines. A brighter light would reveal a damaged body and soul, with black eyes and bruises littering her body. Her faith is compromised, because all she knows right now is the feel of his hands on her skin. These thoughts plague her in the moments when he's not around.

Her black pants are bunched around her knees; he's gotten violent for her. No longer performing his typical throat-slash, he's gotten creative and brutal with Teresa Lisbon. He's gone in further than he's ever gone before, (literally, she thinks, quite bitterly.) Her hips are sore from nights gone by, being pressed against a cold concrete floor, a wall, a chair, and taken advantage of, repeatedly. Her thighs are stained with blood, and other things she doesn't want to think about, shivering on the cold floor. Her hands are bound behind her, and used against her whenever he comes near. Every time he leaves, she's left with the terrible task of putting her dislocated shoulders back into their sockets.

She can't see a damn thing, save her hands an inch from her face, which is one of the reasons she can't leave. However, her legs are in such a bad state from crowbars, broken ankles, and destructive, delicious sex. She'd hate to admit that she gets aroused, but she can't help it when he's just oh, so good. Of course, she wants it to end, this sick, twisted captivation he has with her body and the numerous ways in which he can mutilate it. If she could get up, she could maybe try to feel against the walls for a door. When he leaves, she's usually on the floor, out cold, or eyes swimming too badly with the fireworks of orgasm still glittering behind her eyelids to notice where he goes.

Her legs don't really work anymore. She's tried to stand up once or twice. The first, she made it about two steps before she collapsed. The second time, all she saw was a muddy green fog encroaching on her vision, and she blacked out with pain. Coming to herself after that wasn't fun, because he was inside her and the first thing she felt when she woke up was his hand inside her, twitching and making her moan uncontrollably, against her will.

Now, she hears soft footsteps and then feels a warm hand on her thigh. She shudders at the temperature; it's such a difference from the numbing cold which seeps through the concrete, chilling her to her core. It's almost as if she shudders in to his hand. He chuckles, feeling her need for warmth radiate off of her, as she shivers violently beneath his palm.

He's more than happy to oblige.

Strong, smooth hands spread her bruised thighs, and she whimpers. All she can do is mouth the word "no," in an attempt for him to stop. Her voice is sore from a week of screaming and crying, a strong woman finally at her breaking point. But half of her wants him to keep going, needs the warmth of human flesh against her skin, needs whatever contact she can get. She's sensory deprived, partially starved, stuck in this basement.

Her hips twitch in pain as he spreads her legs apart, and runs his hands up to her waist. She lays partially propped up against some sack against the wall, she assumes it's sand or something equally as heavy. Her legs are slightly lower than her torso, giving him ample room to squat down in front of her, lightly caressing her waist, his breath hovering against her lower stomach, and parts even lower.

She can only imagine the grin on his face as he slips into her opening. But oh, shit it's different this time, because it's not warm fingers, but it's his tongue, and he's licking at her, making her hips spasm, even though the pain and the numbing cold. He flicks the tip of his tongue back and forth against her clit, and her shudders become more violent. Her eyes glaze over in the darkness, and she throws her head back. For a moment she forgets where she is and can only be aroused by the talented mouth working at her wetness. The friction warms the very inside of her thighs, her wetness seeping a little down her leg. He slowly licks it away, leaving the cold air to chill the wetness left by his tongue.

He's enjoying her conflicted emotions. There's nothing he likes better now than watching her come, unwillingly. He revels in the fact that he can make her do his bidding, in any way he wishes. Of course, she's not quite there yet, she's fighting back the arousal today. In this situation, he's developed a way to torture her with her own need.

One of his arms rests along the length of her thigh; the other slowly slinks up her shirt to her stomach as he works her with his mouth. Suddenly he's so full inside her, and with one upward flick of the tip of his tongue, she actually finds enough voice to moan. Her breathing hitches, and then becomes progressively more rapid. His tongue makes small circles while still inside her, bringing her closer and closer. Just as she's about to burst with raging, terrible ecstasy, he stops. She's left huffing and twitching pathetically. He presses his hand to the inside of her thigh, and stops just short of where she needs it to be. Teresa actually shifts her hips towards his hand, and he laughs.

It's a deep throaty laugh. She only ever hears his voice when he wants something, when he's degrading her as much as possible.

"Ask me for it."

"Please," it's a quite plea, with a raspy voice, thick with unwanted desire. She wants to chase the arousal from her body, but can't seem to calm herself down.

"Beg." His voice is low, with laughter and amusement, as well as something darker. She whimpers, and starts to tear up. Pain and pleasure, all rolled up into one, course through her body.

"Please just finish it," she rasps out. She has no way to finish the job, with her hands bound behind her back, if he leaves. So it's better for him to finish the job and do what he will, rather than leave her there twitching, wanting, for the rest of the night. So she begs him, as loud as her voice can manage, to please, just get it over with. Her pleading voice is music to his ears, so he stands, and then lowers his body over hers while unzipping his trousers. They're suddenly on the floor, with his boxers, and he lowers himself just above her opening to rub in her wetness. Her lower body bucks at the friction, trying to sheath him in her wet folds, but he chuckles and draws back.

Teresa starts to quietly sob, all dignity and hope of escape gone. Even if she were to escape, how could she recover from this? Physically and mentally, she realizes she has been damaged beyond repair. As soon as her breathing slows, he jams himself inside her, trapping her with his hips, as if she could go anywhere. She hears a crack and thinks it might be a wrist or her elbow, fitted uncomfortable behind her, grinding against the hard surface. She feels him kick her pants all the way off her legs, still inside her. He stays like that, waits for her breathing to slow down again, and then begins to rhythmically pound into her. She comes in a wave of pleasure underneath him, bucking her hips in a way she didn't know possible, with all her bruises and broken bones.

But he's not done yet. He lays on top of her, still inside her, head buried near her neck, whispering terrible things in her ear. She can feel him inside her, as she spasms around him. Again, her breathing slows, and that's when he begins again. This time, it's not so hard for him to bring her to the brink, and only when she comes screaming, using the last of her voice, does he explode inside her.

She doesn't hear him when he leaves the room, she's too focused on the warmth between her thighs, and holding on to the little body heat she has been given. He silently picks up his trousers and leaves, with a smile on his face, one she can't see through the darkness.

In her mind, she tries to make him a monster. But it's hard to dehumanize something so male and something that can torment her so easily with her own body, her own pleasure. He can use her, and make her want him to finish it. He gets to her in a way no one ever has before.

She's broken, in every sense of the word. Left to her own devices now, edges of pleasure fading and crumbling, she tries to bring her shaking knees up to her torso. She does so as slowly as possible, attempting to keep the pain at bay. Her eyes are fighting back tears now, trying to be strong for herself, if no one else.

You want an ID on the murderer, on our dearest Red John, the man that's been abusing her for days now? Yeah, sure, she could give it to you. She knows his name, could outline his history. She knows where he lives; she's in his basement now. It's a stronghold, but she knows exactly where she is. She knows the town, the street, the address.

She's been in this house before, been through the rooms, knows what's upstairs, and on the second floor. There's a bedroom up there, with only a mattress, thin sheets and a blanket. On the wall in that bedroom is a red smiley face, painted in blood.

That's what triggers the DID, (Dissociative Identity Disorder, that is.) Or at least, that's her best guess. For she's in the house of Patrick Jane, Red John. He's been searching for himself for years, not remembering his misdeeds, as soon as he returns home. He's never known, still doesn't realize he's killed his own child and wife.

He doesn't know her. Red John doesn't know her like Patrick does. When he's Patrick Jane, the key to the basement is lost and he can't be bothered to find it, he doesn't need anything down there anyways. (Isn't quite sure what's down there, actually.) He joins in the search for his wonderful Lisbon, and there's a powerful block on his mind, preventing himself from learning the truth about his other identity. It would destroy him, and his brain can't let that happen. It saved him by splitting his consciousness in two, and continues to save him by separating the two.

Hours later, Teresa hears footsteps on stairs, and finally hears a light click. She shuts her eyes, but can see the brightness through her eyelids. After a few moments, she slowly opens them to the dim light, which seems like a thousand suns after darkness for a week. She sees blonde hair and a three-piece suit standing at the foot of some stairs, with a knife and a bucket, a dark and maniacal grin on his face.

He's come for her, and she knows this is the end. She says her goodbyes quietly in her head as she says her shaking prayers aloud.

They never do find her mangled body.