Title: "And See Nothing"
Author: NiennaTru
Summary: "In the aftermath of her death he'd made a series of ugly choices, the effects of which continued to emerge and ripple out into all areas of his life. He saw that most clearly in his relationship with Finch, and John was not at all sure he could repair the damage." Takes place sometime after S3E13 "4C."
Notes: The title is taken from the song "Brooklyn" by Gary Go. "I look in my crystal ball, and see nothing." This story makes reference to events that take place in "Wait for Me," and "Feedback," but it is not necessary to read those stories in order to understand this one.
Disclaimer: I own nothing (except Bear's stuffed toy), nor do I make money from this.
Finch stared at the envelope on his desk and waited, palms sweating and stomach roiling in nervousness. He glanced at the clock on the computer monitor and felt another nervous jolt go through him: Mr. Reese would be here any moment. Harold was not looking forward to this at all. The strain of the past months was finally starting to ease and things had only recently settled back into something resembling the old and familiar routines, but what was currently sitting on his desk might change all of that.
Harold picked up the envelope and again considered getting rid of it before John arrived. He grimaced and dropped the envelope back on the desk. He'd promised never to lie to Mr. Reese, and however much he hated this and however much he was afraid of how this might change things, Harold intended to keep his promise.
He knew the moment John entered the library as Bear abruptly sat up in his bed and began wagging his tail enthusiastically. As Reese turned the corner, the dog jumped up and bounded toward his owner. Harold watched as Bear danced happily around John's legs, leaning into Reese's hands as he was rubbed and patted vigorously. John made a swift motion with his hand and quietly issued a command to the dog. Immediately, the Belgian Malinois turned and ran into the stacks.
"Morning, Finch," John greeted. "We have a new number?"
"Good morning, Mr. Reese," Harold replied, but was prevented from continuing by Bear's sudden reappearance. There was something large and white hanging from his mouth—some kind of stuffed animal apparently. Harold didn't recognize the toy and had only a brief moment to wonder where it had come from when it began to crow like a rooster. Loudly. He cringed a little at the sound.
"I see Bear has acquired a new toy," Harold ventured, having to speak louder than normal in order to be heard over the din. From across the room, John met Harold's eyes. Finch noted the younger man looked as if he were trying not to laugh.
Shortly after John rescued Bear, Harold made the mistake of buying a squeaky toy for the canine. The resultant noise—which was almost constant, given the dog's enthusiasm—had been too much for Finch and he'd finally removed the noisemaker from the toy. John had found his employer's irritation with Bear's plaything immensely amusing and had—unbeknownst to Harold—replaced the disemboweled toy with a new one. The following day, Bear had greeted Harold in the entrance of the library by squeaking the new toy relentlessly. That toy's fate soon mirrored that of the old one, but every so often a new and irritatingly loud toy would appear in the library. John had found the joke endlessly amusing, and apparently still did.
The squeak of the gate announced the arrival of Shaw into the library, and as the dark-haired woman stepped into the inner chamber, Bear ran to greet her, the new toy still in his mouth. The canine chewed it enthusiastically, eager to show it off. Shaw indulged the dog and bent down to rub Bear's back as he circled her. The female operative pointed at the floor and Bear obediently dropped the toy. As Shaw picked it up, Harold could see that it was not a rooster as he'd thought, but a chicken. John had gotten very creative this time.
"A new toy!" Shaw exclaimed with uncharacteristic animation, making a show of examining the stuffed animal. She held it up for John and Harold to see and then squeezed it several times in order to make it crow. Bear watched Shaw and the toy with rapt attention, his tail wagging furiously, thumping against the book cart next to him and upsetting several books. Harold sent a long-suffering look in John's direction, but the younger man merely shrugged his shoulders in artificial bewilderment. Finch was not fooled. Obviously, Mr. Reese had decided to include Miss Shaw in his on-going prank.
Shaw tossed the chicken into the air and watched as Bear caught it with ease. "Did you see Bear's new toy, Harold?" she asked, glancing in Finch's direction and smiling.
"Since both you and Mr. Reese have made quite a production of pointing out the fact, I fail to see how you could think I hadn't noticed the mysterious appearance of yet another irritating toy, much less a stuffed chicken that inexplicably crows like a rooster," Harold replied.
Shaw smirked and shared a knowing look with her co-conspirator.
Harold turned away from the absurd scene, feeling as if here were the only adult in the room. As his eyes strayed back to the envelope, however, his stomach again clenched unpleasantly.
"I haven't had a chance to take Bear out for a walk this morning, Miss Shaw. Would you please take him to the park and make sure he is properly exercised?" Harold's fingers moved absently over his keyboard as he spoke, typing code into a command window.
Shaw was surprised by the request, and glanced suspiciously between Finch and Reese, trying to get a read on the situation. Normally, Finch got to the library at an obscenely early hour in order to do morning maintenance on his computers and take care of Bear. And on the infrequent occasions that Harold was unable to do so, it was John who took Bear for a morning run. She'd taken a certain amount of mischievous glee in trying to win Bear's affections away from Reese and Finch, but Shaw had known enough about military dogs to know that wasn't ever going to happen. It had only been when John was away that Shaw had ever been regularly tasked with taking care of Bear.
Sensing her hesitation, Harold turned in his chair to look at the younger woman, his eyes drifting in John's direction for a brief moment. "I'm sorry, but I need to speak with John alone about something not pertaining to work, and I would prefer it if we were alone in order to do so."
Shaw's gaze flicked back and forth between the two men and then to the envelope on Harold's desk—the only other thing out of the ordinary this morning. She'd been witness to the recent fallout and figured the two men might need to talk about a few things. She shrugged her shoulders.
"Sure, Harold. Whatever." Shaw grabbed Bear's leash from the filing cabinet in which it was stored and clipped it to the dog's collar. Bear's tongue lolled out of his mouth as he panted in excitement and Shaw smiled a little at the sight. The two walked toward the stairs.
"Call me when you're done," she said over her shoulder. The sound of a door slamming could be heard a moment later and then there was silence, save for the hum of Harold's computer equipment.
Finch cleared his throat. "I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Reese, and I thought it best to do so privately." He flushed in embarrassment as he realized he was essentially repeating what he'd just told Shaw.
John's eyebrows raised a little. "So I gathered. You sure Shaw isn't listening in anyway?"
Finch flicked his fingers on the desk in a gesture of dismissal. "It took me some time, I admit, but once I knew what to look for, I developed my own means of disabling Miss Shaw's covert surveillance."
Harold glanced up at John, knowing they were both thinking of the tracking device John had planted in Harold's glasses. Finch had checked the new pair he'd purchased to replace the ones Root had destroyed, and sure enough, John had somehow managed to place another tracking device in the eyewear. In the end, Harold's pragmatic side won out: He'd left it where it was hidden.
"I can assure you, Mr. Reese, this conversation is private."
Harold lapsed into silence as he gathered his thoughts. He'd been thinking about how he would approach this discussion since last night, rehearsing words and trying to anticipate John's response. Somehow, nothing he'd prepared now sounded right. He was aware of John waiting. Meeting the other man's eyes, Harold finally spoke.
"Taylor Carter contacted me last night."
John stiffened at the words. Whatever he'd thought Harold wanted to talk about, this wasn't it. He struggled to school his face into an impassive mask, but judging from the look of concern and misery on Harold's face he wasn't very successful.
"I'm sorry to have to bring this up, Mr. Reese, but Taylor told me that he'd been going through some of his mother's things and found something belonging to you."
John shifted his gaze back to Harold. He remained silent, but Finch saw the unspoken question in his face.
"I think he thought it might be better if I gave it to you," Harold explained as he rested his hand on the manila envelope. Taylor had shown him what he'd found, though the teenager hadn't realized what he'd stumbled upon. He only knew that what he'd found apparently belonged to John and, for whatever reason, his mother had been in possession of it when she died.
John stared at the envelope, but made no move to pick it up. Taking the younger man's silence as a request for privacy, Finch stood up from his chair. He limped over to the coat rack and lifted his coat off the hook.
"I think I'll go get some fresh air." He was about to pull it on when John finally spoke.
"You don't need to leave, Harold."
Finch turned to look at John. "I thought you might want to be alone when you see it."
John flinched slightly and met Harold's eyes. "You know what it is."
There was no accusation in the remark, but Finch felt guilty nevertheless. "Yes."
"You don't need to leave, Harold," John repeated, and waited until the older man nodded.
Picking up the envelope in his hands, John saw that someone—Harold or Taylor—had sealed it instead of using the metal tab at the top. His hands felt uncoordinated and heavy and as he clumsily tore open the top, the envelope slipped between his fingers.
A photo spilled out onto Harold's desk and he stared in shock at the couple in the fading image. Jessica looked happy. They both did.
John struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. He looked up and saw Harold watching him. "Joss had this?"
"I think Detective Carter discovered it during her investigation in New Rochelle," Harold explained, his voice gentle, as if the tone could somehow ease the pain behind the meaning of his words.
John was silent as he absorbed the new information. When he made the connection, his legs felt watery and the room seemed to shift. He locked his knees with difficulty.
"Jessie had it." Pain lanced through him with surprising intensity and he closed his eyes against the onslaught. "She kept it."
Harold said nothing. An unwelcome wave of frustration and anger hit him and he found himself wondering why Detective Carter hadn't simply destroyed the photo since she'd apparently never intended to give it to John anyway. He sighed then, irritated with himself for having the thought. It was a selfish consideration. He knew very well why Joss had done so, because he'd been sorely tempted to do the same.
Realizing that he was still holding his coat, Finch turned to hang it back up and then slowly limped toward the desk. He fixed his eyes on the photo there, taking in the happy image. He'd met Jessica once, at the hospital where she worked. He'd managed to speak to her as she was getting off shift, though what he'd hoped to accomplish by that he still couldn't determine—as if a brief conversation could possibly have saved her from her husband's brutality.
Harold knew John could have saved her, had it not been for the detour to China. He felt guilt and regret wash over him at the familiar thought. His own role in Jessica's death was glaringly obvious, even if John chose to ignore that fact.
He looked up at his friend. The younger man was still lost in thought, staring at the photo on the desk. Finch admired and respected John's need to protect people, but he acknowledged the darker aspect of that quality as well. When John believed he'd failed to protect someone, he rarely responded in a healthy manner, choosing instead to engage in behaviors that were dangerously self-destructive. It was this characteristic of his emotional makeup that had so alarmed Harold when the other man had walked away following the death of Detective Carter. He'd been terrified that John would once again deteriorate and concern for his friend had weighed heavily upon him until Reese returned.
Yet even now Harold found himself continuing to worry. He could understand that the younger man was still grieving, but there seemed to be something else at work as well, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. And now this…he wasn't sure what kind of damage this latest blow might cause.
Preoccupied with his thoughts, Harold wasn't prepared for John's sudden movement as the younger man turned to face him. Finch startled and took an awkward step back. He had just enough time to see alarm and hurt register in John's eyes before the other man looked away. He sighed and shook his head. "You surprised me, Mr. Reese. That's all."
John met his eyes for a moment, but remained silent. Harold had always been paranoid, but John knew that he had done a fantastic job of dismantling the trust that had slowly built between them when he'd walked away.
He glanced at the photo lying on the desk. It was a mistake he seemed to make repeatedly. Jessie had been the one person he'd been able to love without reservation, and the brief time he'd spent with her had been the happiest of his life. She'd trusted him, loved him. She'd thought he was a good man, but he had turned his back on her, abandoned her. He'd always known how badly he'd failed her, but seeing the photo of them and knowing that she'd kept it brought that knowledge to a new and horrifying level.
Joss had obviously held onto the picture in order to spare him the pain of knowing—she'd been trying to protect him. His lips twisted at the thought. Joss had reached out to him at the lowest point of his life and treated him with kindness and compassion and he'd felt a kinship to her that was almost immediate. Carter had been a good person, one the world should not have lost, and she'd deserved far better than the violent and painful death she'd suffered. He'd failed her as well.
In the aftermath of her death he'd made a series of ugly choices, the effects of which continued to emerge and ripple out into all areas of his life. He saw that most clearly in his relationship with Finch, and John was not at all sure he could repair the damage.
The day after he'd nearly killed himself going after Quinn, John had awoken to sunlight filtering through the windows of the safe house, a warm blanket covering him, and Finch sitting at his bedside. Yet for some inexplicable reason he'd only been able to think of Kara and the scorn and ridicule she would have leveled at him for believing in Harold and his Machine in the first place. He'd found himself wishing for the cold detachment she'd achieved by the time he'd begun working with her. Anything was better than the grief and bitterness and disillusionment that had threatened to overwhelm him as he lay in the safe house bed unable to move.
When Finch had initially told him about the Machine, he'd found an odd kind of relief in the thought that, had he and Finch been working together when Jessie's number had come up, they would have been able to save her. The shattering loss of Carter changed that. Finch had promised that John would be able to be there in time, but that had proved to be untrue. He'd lied about the Machine's abilities. John had known he wasn't being entirely fair, he'd known that he was holding Harold and the Machine to impossible standards, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Though Finch had tried to conceal it, John had known that his anger and deliberate unresponsiveness had hurt the older man.
The rage had poisoned every waking moment, yet creeping in steadily behind it had been an even darker and more troubling consideration. He'd begun to doubt that the Machine could be trusted; and with that thought he'd felt the stirrings of genuine panic. He'd lived inside of a lie for too long, allowed himself to exist in the dark, to be the dark for too long. He knew what kind of hell that was and refused to go back to it. However much it pained him to leave Harold, he wouldn't allow himself to be used or manipulated again.
Even now, even after what Harold had told him in Rome, John was reticent to blindly walk in the direction the Machine ordered. Finch was convinced that there was enough of a human element at play to counter the power of the Machine, but John wasn't so sure.
But he also knew that whatever he personally thought about the Machine, Harold didn't deserve the anger and blame John had leveled at him. The man had saved his life and given him a purpose, a reason to keep going. He'd offered him hope that the world could be better and presented him with a means to prevent bad things from happening to good people. It hadn't been a foolproof system—if he was honest, he'd known that long before Carter had died—but Harold had given John something he'd desperately needed. And most surprising to John was how Harold had become a kind of anchor for him, a centering presence in his life—something he hadn't experienced since Jessica died. He'd spent so long feeling adrift in the world, lost in darkness and regret, and Harold had changed all of that.
John couldn't trust the Machine—then or now—but he could trust Harold.
"I've screwed up a lot, Harold." John said, dropping his eyes for a moment to the photo on the desk. "I pushed Jessica away, I left her alone and she's dead because of it." The finality of the statement hurt, and his breath hitched at the ferocity of the pain that accompanied the words.
"I messed up with Carter, too. I should have been more careful that night. I knew Simmons was still out there, but I was careless and let my guard down."
"John, please…" Harold interrupted.
"I was angry for a long time," he said, speaking over Finch. Echoes of the old frustration and rage emerged and roughened his voice. John paused and made an effort to push the feelings away, knowing how easily Harold would hear accusation in the words he spoke.
"And maybe I'm still angry," John said, shaking his head a little. "But I know my part in all this. I don't want you to think that I don't understand that."
Harold frowned. Something about this felt wrong. He'd always prided himself on being able to make connections, to see ten steps ahead, but at the moment he felt completely out of his depth.
"You had every right to be angry after what happened to Detective Carter, John," he said, speaking slowly in order to give himself time to think. He knew he was missing something. "I do know that. I'm angry as well. I confess that I've gone over the events of that night many times in my mind, trying to determine what I could have done differently. I share responsibility as well."
"No, Harold…." John rubbed his eyes, irritated with himself for not being able to express himself with any kind of clarity. He dropped his hands heavily at his sides. "I don't want to mess this up, too."
Harold stared blankly at John for a moment and shifted his feet, feeling the pain and stiffness in his neck and back that inevitably went with standing in place for too long. He'd thought everything had been settled in Rome, but it appeared that he was wrong. His mind raced, replaying their conversation, trying to make connections he apparently wasn't seeing.
Comprehension came with startling and unexpected clarity and Harold shook his head, frustrated with himself. He knew John well enough that he should have realized the problem far sooner. "You haven't, Mr. Reese," he said, infusing the words with as much conviction as he was able.
"When I built the Machine, I certainly never intended it to be…sentient. I believed artificial intelligence was the stuff of science fiction and I thought I was building a tool to be used. I was wrong, obviously." He said somewhat bitterly. "I confess that I am not altogether comfortable with what the Machine has become. In fact, I'm more than a little uneasy about its evolution."
Finch took a step toward Reese. "I know my part in this as well, Mr. Reese. I built the Machine and I set it free and I am not at all certain that I made the right choice in regards to either decision. But more importantly, I think you need to know that I am profoundly sorry for the hurt it has caused others, and for the hurt it has caused you."
He looked down for a moment and continued, quietly. "I told you that I did not agree with your decision to leave after all that had happened, but I certainly understood why you needed to. Grief takes us to unexpected and often very ugly places. I know that firsthand. Nathan was one of the irrelevant numbers."
John looked pained at the admission. "Harold, you don't need to—"
"No, I think I do. I think you need to understand something I thought was perfectly clear," he said pointedly.
"I don't expect blind obedience, Mr. Reese. Nor have I ever asked that of you. I understand that was the way things were done in the CIA, but if you'll recall, I have never stopped you from asking questions or from voicing your opinions. I don't want that kind of partnership. I thought you knew that."
Harold paused a moment. "And as for your fear that you may have made a mistake or ruined our partnership by walking away, I can only remind you that you have always been free to go. As I said, I didn't agree with your decision, but I did not and do not hold your choice to leave against you."
He sighed. "You haven't ruined anything, John. Please believe that."
John said nothing, but Harold was more than willing to wait him out, allowing his friend time to think.
"So we're okay," John said after a long silence.
It wasn't a question, but Harold answered anyway. "Of course," he said, managing to look both affronted and pleased at the same time. "Quite frankly I'm surprised that you would think that our partnership is so fragile in the first place. Forgive me, Mr. Reese, but I find the notion ridiculous."
John's lips twitched a little at that. "I guess I should know better by now than to underestimate you, Finch."
Harold smiled as well, relaxing a little, but as he looked up at his friend, he saw that John was again staring at the photo lying on the desk. Harold followed John's gaze, taking in the happy image.
"It isn't right for you to assume sole responsibility, John."
"Is there any other way to look at it?" John asked, his voice unexpectedly harsh and brittle.
"I think there is, yes," Harold answered gently, knowing he was treading on wounds nowhere near healed. "We all make choices in life. Where those decisions take us is often difficult for us to see; and the choices we make that affect those closest to us are the hardest for us to reconcile. But John, you have to know that you did what you thought was right at the time with the information you had."
John met his eyes and Finch could guess what the other man was thinking. He swallowed hard, but did not look away.
"I argued with Nathan about the backdoor access to the Machine. Nathan understood—long before I did—the significance of the irrelevant list. But I wanted no part in what he was trying to do. I was terrified we would be found out and I took away his access. My decision to do so drove him to…desperate measures. It got him killed."
John winced and reflexively took a step closer toward Harold. He was surprised when Finch reached out a hand and placed it on his arm.
"So please believe me when I tell you that I can understand—at least in part—how you feel. I know that I should have done any number of things differently with Nathan, but I also know that I was not the one who planted the bomb that killed him." Harold found he was shaking and took a steadying breath.
"You didn't kill Jessica. Whatever mistakes you've made, you don't deserve to believe that. Please don't blame yourself."
John shook his head a little, automatically, his eyes drawn to the hand on his arm. "Finch," he began, and found that he didn't know how to finish. His thoughts and emotions were in turmoil and he suddenly felt exhausted. Harold was watching him with an undisguised look of hope and dread on his face. He knew very well what the other man wanted to hear, but found he couldn't say words.
"I'll try," he promised, and placed his own hand atop Harold's.
Finch watched him for a moment and then nodded his head. "Alright."
In the silence that followed, John turned toward the desk and picked up the photo still lying there. He held it in both hands, his finger grazing over the image of Jessica. Harold looked away.
"I am so very sorry, John."
"I know, Harold. I am, too."