Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. This should be glaringly obvious.
Rated K+ for mild language and mentions of violence
A/N: I enjoy this show and I am so thoroughly intrigued by the character of John Reese. There is so much depth to his character that just isn't explored enough in the show (for me anyway). One of the things which caught my attention is that we are always kept from seeing Reese outside of his work with Finch. I wanted to know how he functioned when he felt sufficiently hidden away from the rest of the world.
So this is my exploration into his character. Enjoy.
Miles To Go
John was shuffling by the time he made it to his motel room.
Step, shuffle. Step, shuffle. Step, shuffle.
It was nearly midnight. The neon motel sign stuttered in the smoggy city-lit darkness. It wasn't a full deep darkness, like you would find in the middle of cow country, but was fringed in the ambient glow of thousands of streetlamps.
He missed nighttime. Actual, real, nighttime.
John released a slow shuddering breath through his clenched teeth as he came up to his motel room. He produced a key from an inside jacket pocket and slipped it into the door – a simple task made agonizing when there were tiny bits of glass embedded in ones fingers.
Mr. Finch didn't know about the injuries. He'd only fuss over them. John had dealt with worse before. He would deal with worse in the future. It was the pattern of his life. Violence and recovery. The only way the pattern would end would be when his heart stopped beating on one last sour note of violence.
He slid inside the dark room and locked the door behind him.
The carpet was threadbare. The furniture was about fifteen years out of date. The walls were some sort of beige though John seriously doubted that they had started out that way. But overall, the room was clean. Old, yes, but clean. It stank of cigarettes despite the no-smoking sign on the front of the door. Most would call that a bad thing but the smell brought John back to a simpler time – back when he was still on the good side of the law and spent countless hours on all night guard duty with nothing more cigarettes and achy feet to pass the time. Not that he smoked anymore – it wasn't conducive to good health – but back then it served to paint him as quite the dynamic character. It was a reputation thing. He smiled a lot more back then too.
Mr. Reese gently sat on the squeaky bed and bent over to pull off his shoes. His movements were slow and jerky as if his muscles couldn't quite execute the memories that they knew. But that's what happened when you got hit by a car. Go figure. And all he wanted now was to collapse into bed and sleep away the pain. He wanted to shut out the world, just for a few moments.
But there were miles to go yet.
John swallowed a string of curse words as he peeled the shirt off his body. His nice slate gray dress shirt had disappeared somewhere between getting smashed by the car and spending the night locked in shipping crate full of underage sex slaves. He didn't even notice the shirt was gone until he was tackling a mob underboss into the river. By the time he'd squared things away with Finch, John was down to his undershirt, his hair was a nightmare, and he was pretty sure he smelled like cat piss.
Damn-it, he was tired.
For a few seconds, John just sat there, shirt in hand, shoulders slumped. He just listened. The noses outside were muted by the protective shell of his motel room. For just a moment, he let himself feel safe.
John drew in a deep breath and rocked himself upwards. He shuffled to the bathroom and flicked on the light. The man in the mirror was frightful. He wasn't the tall imposing well groomed man of mystery that was Mr. Reese. No this man was frantic and raw. It was startling – from the disheveled hair to the hollows under his eyes to the fantastic looking bruise that bloomed out across the entire left side of his body.
John stared at his reflection, seeing his constant inward appearance suddenly painted over his outward appearance. Because really, deep inside him, this is who he really was. He was a man without strength, without fortitude, deeply wounded and running ragged.
Back inside you go.
He pushed all of the emotional fracas to the background of his thoughts and flicked through his medical training. The bruising might feel better with an ice pack but there was little else to do. Nothing was seriously broken, as far as he could tell. Fractures didn't really count in his line of work. His knee felt like someone had twisted it all the way around. His head was pounding but in the hours since the impact, he'd had little dizziness and no unconsciousness. In fact, he hadn't closed his eyes for more than thirty seconds since this whole ordeal had started over thirty-six hours ago. Likely a mild concussion, if anything at all. His fingers were a little more alarming. The ring finger and pinky on his left hand were definitely broken. It appeared to be a pretty clean break –there were no bone fragments poking out or anything – but they were completely swollen. And he had bits of glass in both hands (which was a decidedly better then getting glass in his face). Mostly, he just felt like he'd been hit by a car. Which he had.
John produced a well stocked first aid kit from under the bathroom sink. He popped a few ibuprofens and dug out the tweezers. With careful movements, he slowly plucked each pea sized chunk of safety glass from his flesh. His hands were trembling slightly by the time he had finished. Next was the hydrogen peroxide. It would hurt like hell but it was better than leaving the fate of his river soaked wounds to mere soap and water. The shaking had completely taken over his hands and arms as he swabbed out the tiny cuts that frothed as the peroxide ate up the germs. The burning sensation enveloped his limbs and he hissed out the pain.
Shake it off.
His hands were bleeding a little when he finished and red cotton balls littered the countertop. John looked at himself in the mirror again, warring with his next set of decisions: shower then bed or bed then shower? Or food then shower then bed? He had three options and each were vying for immediacy. Exhaustion was a given. His eyelids were permanently fused at the half way mark. But his stomach was also painfully empty. It might be empty enough to make sleeping fitful. A shower promised warmth and relaxation which may calm him enough to sleep well despite the need for food.
As John looked around he realized that his decision would come down to one thing: the shower was closest. Logic be damned.
He cranked the heat up as high as it would go and braced one hand against the wall for support as the water slid down across his taunt muscles. Steam billowed up and around him, surrounding him in warmth. It felt sinfully good to sluice away the grime and muck and watch it swirl around the drain at his feet.
Reese sighed, letting some of his tension rush out with the spent oxygen. He closed his eyes and simply stood there, under the iffy water pressure. He would have kept standing there all night except that John found himself pitching forward on rubbery legs. He stopped himself from head butting the wall but decided that staying in the shower would be a bad idea in the long run.
Transferring from the bathroom to the bedroom was more difficult than it should have been for a normal healthy human being. But John wasn't exactly a shining example of health at the moment. He plopped down on the bed and gingerly leaned back onto the mattress. On an exhale, he methodically relaxed his muscles. The ache was deep and penetrating. He closed his eyes.
Took a deep breath.
His cell phone buzzed.
John's eyes snapped open. His initial reaction was alarm but it was sluggish. Blearily, he squinted at the screen before snapping the phone open.
"Finch?"
"Mr. Reese, a situation has come up."
"Excuse me?" He hadn't meant to snap but the words came out before he could stop them. They were gruff heavy words that came from the back of his throat much unlike the way he normally spoke. He normally threw his words to the front of his mouth, right behind his teeth. It gave the illusion of calm and control.
Finch hesitated. John could hear it. "I was just given a number. I think you should come ov—"
"I'm on my way." He snapped the phone shut.
For a moment, John just lay there, staring at the ceiling. He felt the weight of the world settling back onto his shoulders. Sometimes the recovery swings were shorter then he needed them to be. That's how this worked. There was no rest for the wicked. It was a dark and depressing reality. With a sinking feeling, John slid back into his cool persona.
He was just about to roll out of bed when his cell phone buzzed again.
"Mr. Reese, I'm putting Detective Carter on this one. It should be simple enough for her."
"Why?"
"I seem to recall that this past day has been difficult for you."
John didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what to say. It was embarrassing to have his weakness flapping in the wind for Finch to see. And yet… it was an unexpected comfort.
"Get some sleep, Mr. Reese. I'll call you tomorrow." The line went dead.
John stared at the phone in his hands. He wasn't used to this. It was both encouraging and unnerving. Mostly unnerving. But he would have time to worry about that later. John ran a hand down his scruffy face and rubbed his eyes. He heaved a sigh. Emotions were swirling around his head. It was a cacophony. It was confusing.
John took a deep breath and held it in his lungs.
Count to ten.
Slowly, he carefully assembled his emotions and locked them away in their proper place. He silenced the screaming demons. He muted the memory loops. He shut himself down. It was a practiced skill but a necessary cog in the machine that was his life. It kept him from going crazy.
And in this way, the healing mantle of sleep lowered onto his weary frame and John lost himself to the peace and serenity of his faceless, empty dreams.