Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. Written for enjoyment, not money.
BANG! The car door slammed shut behind John Reese like a gunshot and echoed loudly in the loading zone between the buildings. BANG! In his mind's eye he could see Stephen Jenkins' laughing face, just before it was suddenly blanked by a slug to the forehead. BANG! Melinda DeGraff's body dropped lifeless to the ground from a sniper rifle double-tap, center mass, at a distance of forty yards. BANG! Scott Hannity's psychopathic tendencies were put to rest by an ugly shotgun blast, close-range, to the throat.
Reese stepped away from the car, the city lights spinning around him. Bang! Bang! Bang! James Wickman, Carlton Swade, Lucy Remington: each initiated into the Lifelong Limp Club.
Someone else's car door slammed in the distance, more of a thud than a bang. Dale Dean and Kerry Beck: a well-placed elbow and a baseball bat to the ribs, respectively. They were the lucky ones.
In just over three weeks, he'd put more bullets in people than he had in as many months during some of his military tours, but because fate was a twisted - twisted - joke, there had still been today. Reese staggered, nearly fell, but managed to straighten and continue forward as the door ahead of him automatically slid open. He stared despondently at the bright red trail he was leaving on the ground and listened to the sounds of casualty all around him. This wasn't supposed to happen. He'd set out today to avoid bloodshed, to deliberately not be a party to the destruction that seemed to be consuming the city at a continually-increasing pace. Instead, he'd ended up more convinced than ever that it was inescapable.
Even the Machine couldn't have foreseen today's disaster in time - the stupidity necessary to bring it to fruition had been far too extensive to compute. Tomorrow, the newspapers would call it an accident, and that would be a kindness. Nonspecific negligence would be cited, no charges would be filed, and life would go on as usual. Never mind the good people who might starve as a result...
No, John decided firmly as he slowly made his way through a hallway crowded with everyone except who he was looking for. Lucas deserved better after the work he'd put into obtaining the funding and permits necessary to open his soup kitchen, and especially after the work he'd put into saving John's own life when he'd been fresh out of the CIA and a newcomer to the streets. So, assuming he didn't keel over first, Reese was going to find a way to fix this. He had to. He was responsible. His memory took the opportunity to remind him of it, too, replaying November from the start.
To say that it had been a bad month was an understatement. Five numbers in the first week and three each for the following two had resulted in him not seeing the inside of his apartment for longer than an hour at a stretch since before Halloween. Yesterday evening - two days before Thanksgiving - had been his first reprieve. He'd fixed himself dinner without really paying attention to what it was and crashed early, enjoying a full eight hours of sleep before his phone woke him. Thoroughly conditioned to assume that it was Finch notifying him of yet another number, Reese had been instantly alert at the sound of the buzzing, but he'd realized after a moment that it was just the alarm he'd set, not a phone call.
Immeasurably thankful for that small mercy, he put the phone back on the nightstand and headed for the bathroom. The reflection he saw in the mirror made him wince. His body was a patchwork of scrapes and bruises, courtesy of altercations with a remarkable eight of the last eleven numbers that had turned out to be perpetrators. Reese shook his head. He'd managed to avoid serious injury himself, but Jenkins, DeGraff, and Hannity had chosen bullets over prison, and the others would be nursing their various wounds for quite some time.
John showered and shaved and had breakfast while eyeing the assault rifle and black bag of equipment that sat across from him on the table. He was almost loathe to place them back in his armory, for any time he'd attempted to do so in recent weeks, things had just gotten worse. Today was going to be different, though, he decided. He set down his coffee cup and picked up the bag and rifle, crossed the room, and deposited them inside his weapons closet before he could change his mind, re-locking the door securely. Pulling on a leather jacket over his black henley, Reese left his apartment and was two blocks away before he realized he hadn't brought even his backup sidearm with him. He slowed to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stood there for ten whole seconds, debating, before he forced himself to keep moving. The job was taking an unpleasant toll on him and he needed to remember what it felt like to function for a day without a gun in his hand. It left him uneasy from a tactical perspective, but if worse came to worst he had an emergency cache in the area. He had a stash of implements at the library, too, sufficient to get him started if Finch called him in.
Reese walked aimlessly for awhile, just enjoying the fact that he hadn't had to follow or fight anyone in over twelve hours, and he smiled when he recognized where his subconscious had led him. Quickening his stride for the last two blocks, he arrived at the soup kitchen to find that Lucas had taken a rare morning off, but as usual there was ample opportunity to pitch in: a truck from the food bank to unload, a pantry to stock, and the day's lunch to prepare. John was soon hard at work with a handful of other volunteers, and his phone remained silent while the dining area grew noisy with conversation as the hungry began to arrive.
He transitioned from buttering bread to passing out plates and napkins and pouring coffee. It was a cold day, and the clock had reached 4 p.m. before the pace slowed enough that he was able to fill a small bowl with remnants of beef stew and have a quick snack himself. More volunteers filed in for the evening shift while he was eating, and he was considering whether or not to stay when a hand clapped him on the shoulder and a voice boomed, "Well if it isn't trouble with a capital T."
John grinned and looked up. "Lucas, it's great to see you." He reached out to shake hands with the other man.
"Likewise. Terry said you've been here since the truck came in this morning. Finally get the day off from that workaholic job of yours?"
Reese's grin faltered just a little, but he nodded anyway. "Something like that."
Lucas eyed him sharply. "I hope that doesn't mean you're gonna wind up a regular here - not that I'd ever turn away a friendly face, especially one with a strong back."
John sighed and shook his head. "It's just been a rough few weeks, that's all."
The retired Army medic nodded seriously. "I hear that, John. You stickin' around for a bit or do you have to get back?"
"I might get called into work later, but I can stick around for awhile longer. Where do you want me?"
Lucas set another bowl in front of him. "First, have more stew. That way when Joanie asks after your, and I quote, 'skinny ass', mine'll be covered. Find me in the kitchen when you're done. You can help me set in our new sink before the plumber gets here Friday."
"Sure," Reese answered easily, chuckling a bit at the other man's comment. In truth, he probably had dropped a few pounds during the last several weeks, and he'd certainly worked up an appetite, so he gratefully wolfed down the seconds. When he re-joined his friend, Lucas was busy making coffee.
"Thirsty bunch out there today," the older man remarked, hitting the switch on the coffee pot and then gesturing to a heavy-duty porcelain double sink that was sitting off to one side on the floor. "Our old one had almost rusted through. When the drain pipe clogged yesterday, we couldn't put it off any longer. Luckily, Mr. Wilkins, that schoolteacher I introduced you to last time you were here, donated this when he moved recently. The way I figure it, he must've been quite the pack rat. Took everything with him but his kitchen sink."
John grinned at the bad pun as they began to lift, but his expression of mirth faded on a hiss of pain when the edge of the sink bit into his skin. He moved to set it back down so he could adjust his grip, only to find that moisture was coating the smooth material, making it slick in his grasp. The fingers of his left hand felt oddly numb, too, and he tried to shift the weight of his burden to his right hand but couldn't compensate quickly enough. Off-balance, John was forced to let go of the sink and abruptly found himself on a collision course with a cart of cooking supplies. He heard the loud thud as the sink hit the floor and felt his elbow strike a plastic jug of some sort, knocking it over, before his grip slipped off the edge of the cart and he hit the floor himself.
The flare of bright orange light and the rush of heat from above were as unexpected as the spurt of bright red blood that shot from his forearm and splattered against the ketchup bottles that lined the bottom shelf of the cart. John watched it happen ten more times, bewildered by the gruesome sight, before Lucas grabbed his other arm and a fistful of his shirt, yanked him to his feet, and drug him out of the way to make room for two people bearing fire extinguishers who began to tackle the flames of the rapidly-spreading blaze.
The building was suddenly in chaos. People were running everywhere and shouting at each other. Someone pulled the fire alarm. John struggled to keep up with Lucas, who manhandled him out of the kitchen, across the dining room, and into a small office. He glanced around, disoriented. His brain was struggling more than his balance and he just stared dumbly as the older man shoved him into a chair, wrapped a dish towel tightly around his arm, and pressed down as hard as he could. John gasped at the sudden pain. "Damn...it," he ground out.
"Trouble, with a capital T. That's you, Johnny Boy. That's you," Lucas drawled, the worry on his face belying his accusing words as he hooked his toe around the leg of another chair and drug it over next to John's. He continued applying pressure for another minute before he risked peeling back the towel slightly. "Shit!" Lucas exclaimed and clamped the towel back down as a stream of red escaped, coating the dark skin of his hands. "I think you might've nicked an artery. Hold that, tight as you can," he ordered, guiding John's right hand to replace his own. Scrambling behind his desk, he shoved a stack of papers to the floor to get to the box beneath and returned with two more dish towels and a pair of scissors. The first cloth he cut in two and one piece became wound dressing, folded in quarters and pressed flat against John's arm. The second Lucas doubled up lengthwise and used to bind the dressing in place. "Give me your belt. That's not going to do on its own," he commanded.
Still dazed, John took a few seconds to comply, and Lucas wasted no time wrapping the belt around the makeshift dressing and drawing it as tight as possible. There was still some seepage, but at a far less alarming rate. Lucas made sure the buckle was fastened securely and then sat back, frowning at the thousand-yard stare on the younger man's face. "Hey," he said, gripping Reese's good arm. "You with me, John?"
Reese blinked. "Yeah...going to think twice before I help you with the plumbing next time, though," he said shakily. He was breathing hard from the pain, and the half-joking jab was as far as his thought process managed to get.
Lucas snorted. "I'll think twice before asking, but that's beside the point. Are you steady enough to walk?"
"Where are we going?" John asked as he slowly levered himself out of the chair. His head felt like it might float off of his shoulders, but his legs held his weight, so he let Lucas herd him out of the office. They paused briefly in a hallway growing hazy with smoke - flames were already licking at the end of the dining room closest to the kitchen - and the older man helped him maneuver into his jacket before steering him out the back door and into the alley.
"That arm of yours needs stitches. Soon. I'm getting you out of here before the authorities show up and start asking questions that neither of us will enjoy answering."
Reese couldn't argue with the logic - he could already hear sirens in the distance - but he wasn't so sure about the plan's feasibility. Lucas didn't own a car, getting a cab in this neighborhood was going to be problematic at best, and though he hated to admit it, he wasn't sure he'd be able to make it eight blocks on foot to the next major intersection in order to hail one. He'd grown more than a little dizzy in the short time they'd been on the move and his muscles were trembling at the exertion of walking. John could feel his heart racing impossibly fast, too, but he forced himself to keep going as the sirens drew closer.
They had exited the alley and turned a corner, and Lucas was now leading him toward a dark-colored car that was parked by the curb several yards ahead. It was an old Mercedes-Benz, with a lot of rust and a lot of noise blaring from inside. The driver's window was open about three inches, and wisps of cigarette smoke drifted out along with the heavy metal.
Lucas rapped on the glass. "Hey, Milo!" he shouted over the noise. After several seconds, the music quieted, the window opened further, and a cigarette butt was flung out onto the ground. John caught sight of a teenager with dreadlocks sitting in the driver's seat and a boom box riding shotgun. He saw Milo's lips move, but had stopped a couple of paces back and couldn't hear what was being said. To his surprise, Lucas pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and held it out to the kid, but before Milo could grab it, the older man snatched it back, tore it neatly in half, and then presented the teen with one of the pieces. "I've got your first fare for your cab service."
That seemed to pique Milo's interest and he stuck his head out the window, looking at both Lucas and John. His eyes widened slightly when he noticed the blood, both on the partial bill he was holding and on each of the men standing outside his car, but he feigned nonchalance and cleared his throat. "Where to?"
"Whichever ER he wants. If he refuses, just take him to the nearest one and make sure he gets inside. Come find me when you get back and you'll get the other half of that hundred." Lucas turned to John. "And you don't give him too hard of a time. Milo's a good kid."
Reese smirked slightly in response and lowered himself into the back seat. The change in altitude made his vision swim, but he was grateful to be sitting down. Lucas closed the car door after him and then jogged away, back toward the burning building, back toward the fire that he'd started when he'd knocked over a jug of cooking oil with his elbow, spilling it on the hot stove…
John felt the meager amount of blood that had still been circulating through his face drain away in horror as that realization sank in, and he was only marginally aware of Milo shifting the car into gear and badgering him for the name of a hospital. Eventually, he provided one - mostly to get the kid to be quiet. A familiar, unpleasant spiral was overtaking him: the fading buzz of adrenaline, the tacky feel of blood on his skin, the destruction in his wake - it was all mundane, ordinary. Today was no longer different. It could have been the end of any one of the days of armed or unarmed combat he'd participated in recently; and anxiety, equal measures of self-doubt and self-loathing, and the mandatory stress headache set on him like clockwork. All were made more pronounced by the blood loss, until he was wound so tightly and so absorbed in his thoughts that the remainder of the car ride and whatever happened after was lost in a haze, and the sudden metal-on-metal sound of a hospital privacy curtain being pulled open caused him to shrink back in alarm.
"Sorry I took so long. That bus crash has us completely swamped," Megan Tillman apologized as she hurried into the room and dropped an armful of supplies onto a small cart. If she hadn't noticed Reese's flinch at her entrance, she definitely caught the one that coincided with the soft thud that her equipment had made. "John, are you doing all right?" she asked, turning to face him.
Reese forced a nod, willing himself to calm down, but Tillman didn't look like she was buying it. She approached him cautiously, as one might a wild animal, and began taking his vitals for the second time since she'd caught him lurking in the hallway fifteen minutes ago. She'd have probably caught him lying on the floor in a heap had she walked by any later, so he supposed a doubtful expression was a small price to pay for her having stashed him in one of the overflow treatment rooms, no questions asked.
"Still more tachycardic than I'd like, and your BP's low, but holding," she informed him. "Any dizziness? Nausea?"
"Dizzy," John admitted, leaning his head back against the pillow of the gurney he was reclined on.
"Tightness or pain in your chest?"
"No."
"All right. Let's just have a look at what we're dealing with then." She took hold of his arm, and moments later the makeshift pressure bandage loosened. The doctor let out a low whistle. "How did you manage that?" she asked.
Reese glanced downward to where she'd unwrapped part of the dressing and immediately wished he hadn't. His skin was split open in a long line and he could actually see muscle glistening beneath the small amount of new blood that had welled up. The room spun faster and he moaned softly, closing his eyes, certain that he was making the same face Harold always did when presented with blood.
"Breathe, John."
He was, but his breaths felt shallow and ineffective, and dark spots were beginning to gather at the edges of his vision. The next thing he knew, Tillman was fitting an oxygen canula under his nose while still encouraging him to breathe slowly. He had to take several deep drags of the O2 before the vertigo eased enough that he dared to open his eyes.
"Better?"
"Yeah, thanks," he rasped, his voice almost as weak as he felt.
The doctor smiled grimly. "Don't thank me yet. You, sir, have just earned yourself an IV and a few more hours here, but it does seem like most of the bleeding has stopped."
John instinctively began to look down again, but Megan quickly blocked his line of sight with a clipboard and raised an eyebrow at him. "From what I know of your work, you probably see stuff like this every other day, but it's a little different when it's your own body. Let me get you stitched up, then you can look at it all you want, okay?"
Reese wearily conceded. He'd seen enough anyway. The gaping wound just added insult to injury...or injury to injury...or something. He needed this day to be over, to get home and get some sleep before Harold called him with another number. He needed to make sure that Lucas and the others from the kitchen were safe. He needed...honestly, he had no idea what else he needed, and his mind seemed unwilling to form further coherent thoughts so he temporarily surrendered himself to the incoherent and drifted on the edge of sleep, interrupted only by the occasional needle stick - first the promised IV in his right arm, followed by enough lidocaine to numb everything below his left elbow. Tillman spoke to him more than once while she worked, but he was unsure if he responded. The adrenaline had long since dissipated from his system and he dozed through most of the stitching, jolting awake only when his phone buzzed loudly. It was set on vibrate, but the sudden noise still caused his heart to try to hammer its way right out of his chest.
Another number, no doubt. John cursed inwardly as he tried to catch his breath, and regarded the nearly-empty IV bag hanging above him with impatience. The liter of saline had done little to counter his racing pulse or the spinning of the room. If he couldn't even turn a few degrees to the side to grab his phone off the counter where he'd left it without risking passing out, he was going to be pretty damn useless to Finch trying to chase down another Hannity or Remington.
The phone buzzed again, taunting him.
"It's a text from someone named Lionel," Megan reported, picking up the noisy device. "Wants to know why there's a...bear in his back seat?"
Reese smirked faintly at her confused expression as she handed him his phone, but also sagged in relief, even though he had no idea what he was going to tell Finch when the man eventually did call, other than that he should go pick up their dog. John knew that Harold wouldn't razz him about what had happened today, but he didn't think that Finch would be terribly surprised by the situation, either, and somehow that was equally as bad.
"I'm going to go find you some pain medication for when the lidocaine wears off," Tillman told him, interrupting his brooding. "Can I get you anything else?"
Other than a day where I don't shoot or kill anyone or pick up a sink without looking for sharp edges and set a soup kitchen on fire?
The unbidden thought caught John off guard, cutting more deeply than any piece of porcelain, and he was suddenly unsure whether to laugh or cry. It was patently ridiculous to think that he couldn't achieve a single day that met all of those criteria and yet he was unable to recall one in recent memory. He bit his lip, slowly shaking his head no to Tillman's question.
For the second time that day the doctor looked unconvinced, and she studied him carefully for several seconds before leaving the room with a frown. When she returned she was carrying a stack of blankets and she covered his upper body with one before draping another over his legs. John stiffened under her ministrations. She had no idea what he'd done, the damage he'd caused today, this week, this month. She shouldn't be helping him. No one should. He opened his mouth to tell her so, but the rigidity in his body proved to be from more than just disdain and speech was rendered impossible by his suddenly-chattering teeth.
It took him a moment to recognize the problem: the blankets were warm and he was anything but. His skin felt clammy and his shirt was damp and cold as ice where it clung to his back and chest, turning the slight tremors he'd been ignoring into full-blown shivering. Tillman tucked the top blanket closer around his shoulders, regarding him with professional concern and just a hint of sympathy as she moved to his other side, withdrew two syringes from the pocket of her lab coat, and injected their contents into his IV. Reese didn't bother to ask her what they were. The walls were playing tilt-a-whirl again. He felt sick. He must have looked it, too, because the doctor proceeded to increase his oxygen flow and administer a third injection that slowly took the edge off of the vertigo and nausea.
"That one's going to make you drowsy, John. Sleep for a couple of hours. Let the meds do their work. In the meantime, I'm going to start you on another unit of saline. If you're feeling better after that finishes, we might be able to skip a transfusion and let you get out of here."
It was a nice thought, but Reese wasn't placing any bets. Tillman was good at her job and he was the definition of a mess. He doubted he'd be going anywhere before morning. Still, he appreciated her attempt to humor him, and felt sufficiently lousy to return the favor, closing his eyes with a nod. Her hand rested kindly on his shoulder for a moment in response, and he managed not to flinch at the contact, but instinct and habit had him tracking her barely-audible movements while she changed out his fluids and turned down the lights. He didn't let himself fade out until her footsteps retreated.
"John?"
The soft-spoken word caused him to stir, but it barely registered with his brain. It was his name, as much as one ever had been, but years of ops and cover identities had stripped its context down to little more than a prefix.
"Mr. Reese?"
That formal address, on the other hand, spoken with such singular familiarity, drew him back as efficiently as the trumpet-blare of Reveille at sunrise. He must have dozed off between the never-ending numbers. DeGraff had been last. Or was it Beck? Female, male, shot dead, merely wounded...it was all running together. Short naps were the most he ever got these days, and he'd have been lying if he said that it hadn't started to wear a little thin, but it was what it was. Dragging tired eyes open, he prepared himself to absorb new information and form a plan of action to deal with whomever the new number might be.
The shadowy confines of the library weren't there to greet him. A dim ER bay came into focus instead, the memory of why he was there trailing after in the form of heavy throbbing from his arm and even heavier guilt, and it took him a moment to realize that he hadn't imagined Finch's voice. Harold was standing just inside the doorway, staring at him with a mixture of worry and resignation - the very look that John had been simultaneously expecting and dreading. He sighed softly and closed his eyes again. Finch apparently took it as an invitation because Reese heard him limp closer and there was a rustle of expensive fabric as he removed his overcoat and hat and placed them on the plastic chair in the corner.
"Mr. Reese, I -"
"Don't even say it, Finch."
There was a brief pause before a bewildered and annoyed tone answered him, "Say what, exactly, Mr. Reese? That I'm relieved to find you here as a patient rather than two floors down in the morgue?"
At that, John winced. "Sorry, Harold," he murmured groggily. "Bad day. Did Tillman call you?"
"No, automated text alert. Your phone's GPS indicator hasn't moved from this spot in over four hours, and you weren't picking up. Now I can see why."
Reese fumbled for his phone and squinted at the screen, surprised to see several missed calls in the last hour. Apparently Tillman hadn't been joking about the drowsiness. "I'll be fine, Finch."
Harold nodded. "So the good doctor assured me when I spoke with her a few minutes ago," he said, but a frown of dismay persisted on his face. Reese's blankets had shifted while he'd slept, partially revealing blood-stained jeans and a shirt that Finch was quite certain had been long-sleeved until today. The tubes that continued to provide John with oxygen and fluids were what spoke to the seriousness of his condition, though. Harold shook his head sadly and slid the chair closer, settling into it. "Should I be worried about whoever else was party to your needing twenty-seven stitches?"
"Only if you're a plumber," John said flatly.
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
The memory of the fire flashed through Reese's mind again and he let out a quiet growl of frustration. There was nothing to understand. He'd screwed up, end of story, but the more ways he thought of to change the subject, the more agitated he became, and he swore he could feel the burning pinch of every one of those stitches alongside the worsening pain radiating from the wound on his arm.
He jumped when Finch lightly touched his wrist, just below the bandages, and found that he was clutching a fistful of blankets so tightly that his knuckles were white. Consciously, John relaxed his grip and the pain subsided a little. He glanced at Harold, but the older man's expression held only curiosity, clearly inviting an account of the day's events but not demanding one.
Disturbingly, that was all it took to break him. Not that this was an interrogation, only a textbook example of why good operatives had assets that they used for all sorts of things - information, conversation, make-believe love - but they seldom, if ever, had friends. Friendship was too dangerous, too unguarded. Sharing information became not an if, but a when. If he didn't tell Finch now, it would happen over breakfast next week, or the tale would get exaggerated as a distraction for Harold the next time the older man was forced to patch him up and was getting queasy from the blood.
John was a little queasy himself at the prospect of spelling out what had happened, but Harold was holding onto his wrist now, ever so slightly, making safe whatever was coming next, and, "Aw, hell, Finch. I tried. I really did. After all the numbers...the perpetrators...I needed today to be different. No weapons, no hand-to-hand. The worst part is that it worked, too, right up until I burned down a soup kitchen and almost bled out because of a damned sink. On my day off! What the hell's waiting for me tomorrow?"
As quickly as it had come, the outburst ended, and for a brief moment Finch could've sworn he was staring not at John Reese, but at Will Ingram, that first time they'd met after Nathan's death. John's expression matched Will's, at any rate: angry, shaken, and desperately needing answers. Finch would have preferred a few more of those, too, namely how a sink could be responsible for the things Reese had described, but the ex-op was staring at the ceiling now, obviously done talking, and Harold wasn't willing to push him any further in his present state. He just wished that the rehearsed speech he'd given Will applied in this situation.
For him, the relentlessness of the recent days had manifested itself as little more than physical pain and insomnia, as long hours spent in front of the keyboard resulted in stiffened muscles and joints that the usual remedies couldn't quite ameliorate. For Reese, though, he knew it had been far worse. John had grown detached and distant as the string of perpetrators had stretched on, to the point that even Detective Fusco had expressed concern.
Harold had come to share in the detective's worry a little over a week ago when John had returned from the scene of Scott Hannity's death, bruised and bloody, an unopened bottle of whiskey in hand, and had proceeded to silently glare out the window for two hours straight before smashing the bottle on the floor and storming out of the library. When he'd returned sober the following morning, and in a slightly better mood, Finch had deemed it best for both of them to just let the matter drop. Now, though, it struck him that perhaps Reese's own fear of spiraling back into old habits had been what was driving his behavior.
The revelation poked uncomfortably at Harold. It had never been his intent to dredge up old demons for John, but he supposed he should have expected as much. After all, everyone knew where the road paved with good intentions led.
At a loss for words, Finch took a deep breath, let it out again, and said the absolute only thing he could think of that, given the realities of their work, wasn't a flimsy platitude or outright lie. "Another attempt, Mr. Reese. That's what's waiting for you tomorrow."
Reese snorted. "Combat is safer."
"No, John. You're just more experienced at it."
Reese stared at him. "It's what I do, Finch. It's what you hired me to do. Now you're saying I should just...what? Quit?"
"Not at all, but I do believe in finishing what you start."
"Well, if you think you can find a bigger sink and a Molotov cocktail..."
"John!" The scold came out much sharper than Harold had intended, but he hadn't been graced with that flippant, dark-as-death tone since the early days of their partnership and, quite frankly, it had sent a chill racing up his spine. To his surprise, though, his retort had actually had some effect. Even though Reese had returned to staring at the ceiling, something in his posture had changed, and Harold knew he was listening intently now. Schooling his voice a shade calmer, Finch went on, "What I was attempting to point out is that recent events, abhorrent as they have been, were powerful enough to steer you toward a different path today. You are the one who chose to follow it, and since I've seldom known you to do anything that is less than worthwhile, perhaps this...setback...doesn't warrant abandonment of your efforts just yet."
Harold let silence take the room, then, unsure of what else he could say that would be of any benefit. Next to him, Reese seemed to deflate, either mollified or further dismayed by the conversation, he couldn't tell which. John's drooping eyelids soon got the better of him anyhow, and in the semi-darkness Finch found himself nearly dozing as well, mesmerized in his own fatigued state by the rhythmic line being drawn on the O2 monitor by John's pulse.
"Harold?"
"Yes, Mr. Reese?" Finch blinked, the afterimage of the small screen obscuring his vision for a moment as he turned his attention back to his friend, who was apparently not asleep after all.
"I need to find Lucas, make sure he's all right."
Harold winced a little at hearing the name. "I had very much hoped that it wasn't Mr. Monroe's soup kitchen we were discussing."
"He helped me get out of there before the fire had had a chance to spread too far, but knowing him, he went right back in to get the others to safety." Reese shook his head. "I just need to be sure."
Finch could understand. The same need had sent him speeding toward the hospital this evening, and while he didn't know a great deal about Lucas Monroe, he knew that John held the Vietnam veteran in very high regard, both as a friend and for the role the man had played in saving his life a short while before he'd shown up on Finch's radar. Harold pulled out his phone. "It's after ten. Will electronic proof of his well-being suffice until morning?"
Reese shrugged and yawned. "If you can find any. The man's a ghost when he wants to be."
Finch raised an eyebrow as he stood from his chair. "Like someone else I know. I'll wake you when I know more, John, and I'll arrange for Universal Heritage Insurance to put a rush on Mr. Monroe's claim."
"Thanks, Finch," Reese answered softly. He had no doubt that Harold would get in touch with Lucas, or would at least locate some piece of information indicating the man's status. Even ghosts could be found if one tried hard enough, and Reese was living proof that Finch would. Maybe he could, too. Maybe tomorrow.