AN: I haven't posted any FF at all for about 2 years, so I might be a wee bit rusty. Also, I might be German, so forgive any weird grammar, expressions, words, typos etc. "As of now, I beta myself" ;)

Concerning the story: *spoilers from here on*

I wrote this "missing scene" after the ep where Root escapes the asylum because I found it a pity that they never touched on The Machine's role in it. This is my interpretation of Finch's thoughts on that. I decided against adding Shaw to the plot, so this plays out before she gets abducted by Root. I actually found that the rest still fits into the Series 3 time and plot lines even with the latest ep and after seeing the promo for 'Mors Praematura' I'm thinking: Maybe Finch is right to be afraid. I'm sure I am wrong, but I'm intrigued by The Machine's decision to set Root free, as I hope you are by my story. Can't wait for next Wednesday (time zone delay yada yada)! Enjoy!

"You feeling alright, Finch? You've been looking a little under the weather today."

Reese tried to sound casual so as not to set off Finch's mental Fort Knox mode, but he was concerned about his friend. He had been for several days. Even Shaw had noticed that something was off. Finch seemed to try hard not to let it show, but it was getting worse slowly but steadily. Reese had noticed it first about two days after Root had escaped. Finch had become quiet, intense, even more withdrawn than usual. Reese had tried to make him open up, talk about his fears and concerns with regard to Root, but Harold had only fed him general snippets and bits, even attempting a light-hearted quip here and there. But their banter had been gone for some days now and so had Shaw. Finch not so subtly had suggested she take a vacation. There would have to be oil poured on troubled water later, but he couldn't worry about Shaw now. He did worry about Bear, though. The Belgian Malinois now wasn't found within a 10 feet radius of his brooding master and his confusion showed in a loss of appetite. Maybe Reese could talk some sense into his friend using the dog's welfare.

"Actually, so is Bear. He hasn't been eating right these last few days. Someone once told me that dogs are very sensitive creatures, they pick up on all sorts of negative vibes -"

"There are more important matters at hand than the analysis of my complexion, Mr. Reese. As for Bear, I am sure his lack of appetite chalks up to your feeding him all kinds of dog-unsuitable morsels." Harold gave him a disapproving look, but his heart wasn't in it. He seemed a thousand miles away even now.

"The number's wrapped up, Finch. Everything's peachy and nobody got shot. So what is so important that we can't talk about the wry face you've been pulling for the past week or so."

Harold didn't even dignify that one with a reaction of any sort and from this Reese knew he had hit a nerve.

"What – you don't like me bringing up the elephant in the room? Because I've tried everything else, Harold, so this is sort of my last resort."

Harold sighed. "Go home, Mr. Reese, I'm sure your elephant will be gone in the morning."

"Actually, I'm sure it won't since every time I come back here it's grown bigger… I'm trying here, Harold, but you'll have to work with me. Something's bothering you and I want to… be a part of it. Is it Root? I won't let her get to you aga-"

"I don't have to work with you, Mr. Reese. If I let you in on some of my concerns in the past, that was a privilege that you cannot expect to be granted every time."

"So you admit that something's going on."

"I am similarly aware of your mind games as you are of my something being the matter, so since we established this counterpoise, I really see no point in further discussing said matter with you."

"Well, I see a point, Finch. I'm concerned about you. Not as your asset, as your friend. And until now you've given me no good reason to stop probing, so what is it? Are you ill? Are you in pain? Did something happen to Grace? I wanna know about this stuff, even if I can't help."

Harold sighed and to Reese it looked as if he had to force himself to look him in the eye.

"I appreciate your concern, John, I do. But all I can assure you of is that it is neither life-threatening, nor can you do anything to help. So please let it go. I'm fine."

"You look like hell."

"So do you, if I dare say so."

"I got hit by a car, thrown into the bay and was nearly canned by a trawler today, Finch, I think I've earned the right to look a little worse for wear."

"You smell it, too."

"You're really doing this, Finch?"

"Do what?"

"That whole… martyr thing you've got going on. Because it's getting pretty old pretty fast."

Harold got to his feet and for a split second Reese felt the urge to grab onto him as he saw the man sway slightly before he sat off into the belly of the Library beast. Reese suspected his only aim was to get away from him. He started to feel rejected.

"Let us all be brave enough to die the death of a martyr. But let no one lust for martyrdom. Mahathma Gandhi. I have no lust for martydom, Mr. Reese, simply for some quiet and peace with my systems and tea. So please, enjoy your evening and don't forget to bring pastries in the morning. Good night, John." Harold disappeared around some corner. Reese left without another word.

When Finch was sure that he had successfully fobbed his nosy asset off, he slowly made his way back to his work station. He didn't mean to show his vulnerabilities to his assets and friends, but running a number while also running a derailing thought train had started to wear him down quicker than he thought. He took his seat and stared at his green tea. He felt slightly sick just thinking about drinking it. He really did feel lousy, he had to admit. It felt like the fevers he came down with during his childhood. The doctor used words like 'sensitive' and 'idiopathic' and 'psychosomatic'. Back then he didn't have a computer to look them up, so he didn't understand them and neither did he understand why his father kept looking at him with these disappointed, condescending eyes. Harold shook his head to get rid of the memories and had to grab onto the desk when he felt his sense of balance leave him abruptly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes.

"The Machine doesn't get sick Harold, so neither can you!" Nathan had once joked when he had felt the same sometime back then. A lifetime ago. But he could still feel the encouraging pat on his back. Nathan. He saw his reflection in the screen smile sadly at the thought of his late friend. He nearly fell out of the chair once more when his face blended into that of his former colleague.

"Nathan?!"