The worst had finally happened.
Their current number was a perpetrator, and Finch had been caught in the act by his thugs. (It is hard to find any plausible deniability when you are found tapping into a phone line with a bag full of surveillance equipment sitting at your side).
Fortunately the bad guys didn't kill Finch outright, but instead were convinced that he would be more useful as a warning and potential bargaining chip to be used against John's undercover persona.
Unfortunately the bad guys seemed to feel that their message would carry greater weight if accompanied by a severed body part.
Finch was appalled at his predicament, but his mind still raced to come up with a way to make the best of his dire situation. His captors were the epitome of dumb muscle, and so used to simply following orders that Finch had been able to fast talk them into sparing his life. Now he just needed to find a way to mitigate the impact of their next move.
A finger was the usual choice in these cases. The pinky finger? It was smallest of the fingers, but extremely useful for gripping things. The pointer finger of the non-dominant hand? It would be the finger whose loss could be most easily compensated for. But the loss of any finger would impair Harold's typing. He had heard of transplanting a big toe to replace a lost thumb. Should Harold sacrifice a thumb in the hopes of regaining 10 digits for typing? Perhaps instead he should simply suggest removal of a toe instead of a finger. Maybe the little toe. But the loss of any toe would throw off his gait, and he could ill afford that with the problems he already had following his injury in the explosion. What to choose, what to choose...
XXXXXX
John held the box in trembling hands. He had been beside himself with worry since he lost contact with Harold. This delivery to his undercover identity merely confirmed his worst fears. He swallowed, trying to steal himself for what he might find inside and trying to bolster his courage with the idea that at least Finch must still be alive. He finally nerved himself to open the box, letting out an anguished "Noooooooooo!" as his horrified mind at last registered the meaning of its grisly contents.
XXXXXX
Reese and company let loose a whole bunch of whoop ass on the evildoers who held Finch hostage, and Team Machine was whole once more. John gently shepherded the traumatized Harold, still in shock over his loss, back to the car for a return to the safety and comfort of the library. He tried to remain stoic even when confronted with the graphic evidence of the brutal act, not wanting to upset Finch by displaying his anguish at the terrible event John had been unable to prevent.
During the quiet drive back home John pondered ways to repair the damage. Perhaps that pretty redhead could help? Meanwhile Finch was finally able to see the effects of the shaved off sideburn in the car's vanity mirror. He sniffed back tears and tried to put on a brave face.
At least he could still type.