A/N: Hello there, dear reader. Thank you for stopping on my story. :-) I am a little nervous about posting this story, just because it's so different from any other Red John theory I've ever seen. I have basically decided on it as my real theory, so I really wanted to get it out there.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist. If I did, I wouldn't have to guess who Red John was, because I'd know. Also, I do not own the poem "The tyger."

"Tyger, tiger, burning bright"

I have no particular love for tigers, or fires, for that matter. Fires are too unpredictable. They're too hard to control. Although, as my dear friend Craig proved, it could be effective when time is of the essence, and you don't have to be the one to put it out.

And tigers are just kittens with bad tempers. I certainly do not consider myself a tiger.

"In the forests of the night."

I never was around forests very much, but I'll admit I've always liked night. Night makes things clearer. Light is too bright, and it's easy to be blinded. It was night when I learned my mother had been in a car crash. It was night when I realized my father could care less about me. And it was night when I killed my first person. Appropriate that it's night now, I suppose, as I will soon end what I started so many years ago.

That's not why I chose the poem either, though.

"What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?"

They were hardly immortal, my parents. You already know of my mom's death. My dad died later. I killed him, although no one knows it. Obviously. Otherwise, none of this would have happened. If they could have caught me then, I would probably be in prison. Although, I was a minor at the time, I'm sure that I would have been caught again, because I wouldn't have had the chance to perfect my skills. Instead of close to forty people dying by my hand, there would only have been two.

My siblings fell apart after our dad's death.

They were too far gone to notice that I didn't.

"In what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare sieze the fire?"

For someone who doesn't like fire, I suppose I could have chosen I poem with a few less references to it, but it couldn't be helped. It communicated what I needed to later. And, honestly, I was rather proud of Craig for using fire. After all, since Todd didn't die right away, Patrick knew what was happening. He knew why Johnson had died. And he knew he needed to keep his distance, or that could be someone else. Someone he cared about.

I really don't like when a plan doesn't go as it was supposed to, even if it works better than I thought. Some people call me a control freak. I prefer to think of it as simply careful. But Craig said it went exactly as he planned for it to. I knew he was lying, but I appreciated the effort, and never complained about it again.

Craig understood me. That's what made him such a great accomplice.

"And what shoulder, & what art could twist the sinews of thy heart? And what shoulder, & what art, could twist the sinews of thy heart? What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? "

My mother was an angel, and my father? Well, I suppose he realized that, because as long as she was around, he was nice enough. But after...Well, I've already told you of after, although I did leave out the alcohol and beatings before that moment. Or the moment when he almost killed all four of us, and I told them to let me talk to him alone.
I told them after that he killed himself. They believed me.
They never thought about the fact that I hadn't gotten along with him since mom died. Or, perhaps, no one thought I would hurt anyone. I don't know which.
But none of these verses made me speak the poem. The message was in the next line, for though I didn't have the time to say most of the poem, I knew he would study it day in and day out for months after.

"Did he who made the lamb make thee?"
The lamb. I was almost disappointed when he didn't realize who the lamb was. Besides this reference, my poem has a sister poem called the lamb. Just like my sister, his faithful little lamb. She believes almost everything he says, at least when it matters.
My two greatest accomplishments are ruining each other.
For all I've ever wanted to do is make people see the world as it truly is.
A dark, horrible place.
And I succeeded, first with Patrick, oddly. When I killed his family, for a few precious years, he saw the world as it truly was.
I almost had Teresa there, too. My two older brothers were hopeless cases. Tommy has a daughter, and no matter what I'll do to get people to see the truth, I won't kill my own niece. Especially not Annie. She's smart, and so much like me that I simply can't kill her, just like Patrick.
And James is so in love with his wife that there's no way he could see the truth, and just like I won't kill my niece, I won't kill my sister-in-law. Maybe killing Patrick's family was a substitute of sorts for me. After all, his daughter would be close to Annie's age now, if she were still alive.
And maybe I do see Patrick almost as a brother. And, unfortunately, I have a feeling he will soon be my brother-in-law.
But I should back up here.
After all, I never said how they were ruining each other.
She didn't want him to become her, and he didn't want her to become him, so they pulled each other toward the blinding light. And that led to them being taken into the blinding light of love. They aren't dating, of course. Not with me still alive. Not me the brother John, but me as Red John.
It's fortunate that John is such a common name, or they might have realized long ago that the two were one.
For the longest time, I was furious about them being in love. Then I met Roslind. And I understood. We couldn't stay together, of course. I left so that she would never be killed, either in the crossfire if I were found, or by Patrick, out of revenge. Just as Patrick tried to leave Teresa. Just another thing we have in common. And Roslind would have stopped me, just as Teresa did Patrick, if she knew why I left.
I called her tonight. I owe her that much. I assured her that I did love her, and that that's why I left her.
Then I explained what I had to do. She tried to stop me, of course. But she couldn't.
Because this was my decision. It was something I sat in motion long ago, at just eight years old, by killing my father.
I have to finish this now.
So tonight, I will drive over to my sister's house.
She has movie night with Patrick every Monday night. I think it has something to do with inserting life into his world.
I wonder what she'll do when she realizes who I am.
I imagine it won't take long.
I will pull a gun on Patrick, and out of instinct, she will shoot me.
And it will be over.
He'll forgive her, of course. He loves her, and it wasn't like she was hiding anything from him. She had no more of an idea than he did.
He'll be mad for a short time, of course. But he'll forgive her. I don't imagine he'll be mad for long at all, actually. After all, she'll need someone to hold her as she cries about shooting her brother.
And he will do it.
It might take them a little longer to start dating, but they'll get there. And I know his ring will be gone within a week of today.

I realize that I never made it clear where my change of heart came from. It came from seeing Roslind in a store, actually. I was wondering what she was doing so far from her home, and I couldn't help but listen to her talk to the cashier.
"No, I'm not married." She'd said. "The man I love is a killer."

The look on the cashier's face was priceless, at least to me. But it also hit something in my heart. Something that, supposedly, a person like me cannot have. It made me feel guilty and sad. Because I loved her. And I hurt her. I didn't want that to be anyone else.
I didn't want anybody else to be in my shoes. It was a strange sensation, for me, but it didn't take me long to realize that would be Patrick, and my sister the hurting, unless I intervened. I think she would forgive him for shooting me to save her life, but I'm not sure. This way, I know it'll be over, and that they can be happy.

I'm at her door now. And it is time to finish what I started.

A/N: Whoa…This is really not what I usually write, but I had this Red John theory, and I needed to write it out and get it out there. I mentioned my reasoning of the poem, but also, the fact that we've never heard Lisbon's youngest brother's name, and the fact that Lisbon is not yet dead. Feedback would be appreciated on this…Unusual idea.