A/N

Without justayellowumbrella, I would still linger around.

It's difficult to write, but it starts getting better, when I realized there are not many stories of John&Harold left. This is my contribution.

And I am sure I am not the only one asking myself this:

Where did you all go, you famous writers?


"Harold?"

John entered the subway office, looking for Harold. Although it was late Sunday evening, John wanted to ask him to have a drink together.

The answer came immediately. "Here, John."

Bear greeted him enthusiastically, and Shaw happened to be there, too, with the dog leash in her hands.

He turned to her. "Going out?"

She tilted her head. "Going for a run with Bear. Meeting Lionel afterwards."

A short smile. "You two wanna come along, later?"

John remained motionless.

"Maybe." He answered.

Truth was, this evening, he wanted Harold all to himself. Not quite so sure whether to get him there where he wanted him to be. But this was his last chance, he feared, so no risk no fun?

He patted Bear's head, and watched Shaw and the dog leaving.

Harold had left the subway car.

"What are you doing here, John? You are in need of sleep for tomorrow."

John took his eyes off the leaving pair and mustered all his courage.

"Asking you out for a drink."

Harold frowned.

"I still have a lot work to do…"

It was a small smile that John allowed himself.

"Don't shut me out tonight."

Silence settled between them.

In all these years, John had only three times sounded that serious. First, when he got shot by Snow in a parking garage. And second, when he had destroyed his phone, trapped under a bank and was taken by the FBI. And third, when he had told him on a bridge that he should stay alive because he was coming for him before Harold turned himself over into the hands of Greer.

Harold sighed and hesitated. He wanted to be left in peace, especially this evening. But he felt – or better, he knew – that it could be the last time they would be together.

"I know a place just around the corner. It's not far. You can return to work afterwards, in case you'd like to."

John interrupted his thoughts.

"I need fifteen minutes." Was all Harold finally answered and returned into the subway car, back to the computer.

"I'll wait for you." John said, but nearly lost his smile with Finch's next words.

"No more than one drink, John. I need my concentration."


John led him to quite a nice bar just around the corner, seeing that Harold limped stronger than before. No doubt it was from sitting too long in front of a computer these recent days. (Including the ICE-9 virus.)

When they entered, Harold was surprised by the dark interior.

"You're sure we're alright here?"

"It's private and without cameras." John explained and made Harold follow to one booth in the corner. Surprisingly, the leather was soft and comfortable.

As John went to the bar for their order, Harold looked around and noticed suddenly the hungry glances towards John. To his astonishment, he only accounted men. It took a while, but then it clicked.

When John returned with the drinks – two whiskeys, a bottled beer and a bottled water – Harold asked bemusedly: "You brought me to a bar for men only?"

"You've been paying attention." John's mouth twitched.

"I saw the looks that followed you." Harold commented wryly.

"Relax, Finch. I'm here with you."

John didn't exactly know if he should to rejoice or to be blue about Harold's reaction. And it didn't make what he had planned easier. Maybe he should simply give up on his idea of...

"So what is it that you want to talk about with me?" Harold asked him.

Was it that obvious?

"Simply wanted to spend some time with you, Harold."

"I really have work to do, John."

A sigh.

"I know, Finch. But may I also add that this could be... our last evening."

Now he had Harold's full attention.

"You don't know what tomorrow will bring."

John smiled again, but this time in a very tired way.

"I do. And you do, too."

"We cannot predict the future."

Another sigh from John.

"How many times didn't we bite the dust?"

"You think we are running out of luck."

"Finch. - Let's better talk about..."

John hesitated. Unusually for him.

"About what?" Harold, who had finally leaned back in the comfortable seat, helped. Still focused on John.

"I wanted to ask you something...or better...do something. - But quite frankly, I don't know how."

His look was surprisingly open, showing mixed emotions, while his hands were playing with the bottle of beer.

Harold who sensed a serious topic behind John's words, leaned forward and put his glass of water back on the table. He took the whiskey tumbler instead and raised it.

"Let us first drink to our friendship, John."

They clinked glasses.

"To friendship, Harold." John rasped.


This was a difficult thing to bring up, John felt it. But he had never been a coward, so he decided to take a risk. He inhaled deeply and put his hand with full intent over Finch's which was lying relaxed on the table. Watching Harold's reaction while he spoke.

"Harold, I wanted to..."

"John – don't give me another thank you for this job that I gave you, please. There's no need."

The hands were still brushing and made John's heart beat faster. Harold hadn't stiffened, so John smiled a bit.

"Harold you're sweet to say such a thing but I had not wanted to repeat my former words. If you let me continue talking."

"Of course."

"Elizabeth Bridges. What did she really mean to you?"

"And you would like to know why?"

"Maybe I'm not able to ask any more questions after tomorrow."

Harold furrowed his brows to John's easily, almost laconically thrown remark, but seemed to overthink it, watching John's calm face thoroughly. He pulled himself together.

"When I met her in Hong Kong, we immediately had a connection and we shared a lot..."

Harold told John the event in his short and tight way.

"...but I think, in the end, meeting her again in New York, I simply wasn't her type."

John croaked a short laugh that he couldn't hold back and shook his head.

"Not her type? You underestimate your appeal, Harold. I think she threw you out because you were exactly her type. That she blamed you personally speaks volumes."

It was meant as a compliment, but Harold didn't take it as such.

"It wasn't my intention to hurt her, John, but simply to have a chance to catch up with Samaritan. And I would have never been caught if not..."

Harold paused.

"Maybe it's better this way, that she blames me and nothing else."

The hurt behind those words was not hidden before John.

"You were ready to die for her, I was told."

A quick look at him showed Harold's surprise.

"I see. Ms. Groves already entertained you with the whole story?"

John found himself guilty.

"I made her tell me, Harold. Didn't give up."

"You could have asked me instead."

"I do now. - Besides, would you have told me if I had asked?"

He earned another quick look, searching for his intention, but John kept his face carefully neutral.

"I once told you I won't lie to you."

"You also told me that you're a really private person."

Harold only furrowed his brows again, pulled his hand back and took the whiskey tumbler.

John sighed, sensing this would bring him nowhere.

"Tell me about Grace." Straight forward.

That made Harold stop in the middle of taking another sip of the whiskey which was not the best but not the worst either. He leaned back, keeping more distance between them.

"Why on earth do you mention her, John? - You know...you know all there's to know."

A visible sigh. "I hope that she is safe and sound wherever she is."

What Harold could not tell John was that he had asked the Machine after her whereabouts not that long ago. He didn't know why, but it suddenly occurred to him that John could feel at disadvantage after all that Grace still lived when Jessica was dead.

"And that's all there is to say?"

"It is."

"You still love her, don't you?"

The look he got from Harold now was decisively inquisitive.

"What is this really about, John?"

"Still trying to tackle that disparity between how much we know about each other."

John's mouth twitched.

Since he got no immediate reaction from Harold, he added softly: "To find out about you."

That was a blunt but honest answer.

"Me...?"'

Harold had suddenly wrinkles of concerns to his brow. And an innuendo in his voice John couldn't quite put his fingers on although he knew the voice by heart.

"...shouldn't be any of your concerns, John."

"You may be, Harold."

John tossed himself into the deep end, figuratively and literally speaking.

"As I said before, I wanted to ask you something. - Will you spend tonight with me?"

John leaned forward with bright eyes, and Harold was not certain – for one moment only – what John really meant.

Either it was the whiskey or Harold's frantic wish to clearly grasp John's intention. In all these years, he never had a problem with understanding John's subtle insinuations or hints. But this whole talk was clouded in mystery to him.

"Are you propositioning me?"

The question was posed before Harold could think about the change that might come along with it.

John's simple answer made him blink both in shock and awe.

"Yes."