This is the second time Harold had to watch someone John cared about, die.
Once again, there is nothing he can do about it.
There is a strange itch in his limbs, bone deep. It takes Harold three seconds to locate and define the feeling as agitation. The neural pathways in his brain seem to be firing at random intervals, his senses at once muffled and thrown into sharp relief. He hears the telephone ringing, the sound growing piercing with every second of persistent urgency, but his eyes are transmitting a different signal: too late, it is already too late.
There's nothing he can do.
The complete stillness in his mind eventually dampen the noise. He stares but does not think he sees. The streetlight gives John's hunched form a strange golden halo, the blood barely visible in a shade darker above his shoulder. There is a small noise he cannot catalogue, a broken, guttural sound, at once drowned by the ringing and rising to the surface again. It eventually comes to him — John is sobbing.
Harold does not think he has ever seen John cry. He cannot be sure. A strange, foreign part of his mind notes that this is a startlingly different behaviour to when John found out Jessica had been killed, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. There is nothing he can do.
Eventually the ringing stops. The desperate gasps for air turn into long, meditative inhales, and all falls quiet. Harold doesn't know how to proceed.
His feet move of their own accord. He takes one step, then another. The limp has never been so pronounced, but neither of them pays heed. Harold is distantly aware of his lower limbs repeating the jerky movement until his shadow fall over John's shoulder.
Harold calls his name. Tries to, at least, but no sound comes forth. John lifts his head anyway — his eyes are bloodshot, but focused. There is a look on his face that is slightly out of place, but Harold can't exactly tell how or why. Their gazes lock, and for a long time, John doesn't blink.
Harold wants to apologise. Wants to say he's sorry, but knows the words are weak before it even forms. He remembers saying them over and over again, watching John sink into depression after Jessica's number went unanswered. It did not help. There was nothing he could have done.
Harold gets the distinct feeling that he has failed. Yet again.
His mouth goes dry. He realises he does not hold answers to anything, though people often assume he does. John's eyes are infinitely dark in the low light. He does not think he can look at Carter's face without risking an intense physiological reaction.
A car zooms them by. Slows down by a fraction, then disappears across the corner. The flash of headlight throws half of John's face in sharp relief, and he finally blinks. A single, residual tear rolls down the already dried tracks on his face, detached of its emotional origin.
"We need to go," Harold says. His own voice sounds foreign to him.
John's finger twitch, but he doesn't move. Harold watches desperately, trying to connect words that somehow have escaped all meaning.
"Break me free," John says.
Harold blinks owlishly. "Pardon?" he asks, quiet, thrown by the strange look of frigidity on John's face.
"Break my fingers free," John repeats. He doesn't remove eye contact.
It suddenly occurs to Harold that maybe it's because he cannot.
"Okay," Harold says. It slides out like an exhale.
Harold kneels down awkwardly. True to his suspicion, John's eyes remain focused on where he had been seconds ago. He extends his palm, and covers John's hand. The fingers are cold, knuckles stiff, and they are shaking minutely. The only warmth left of Carter is crumpled underneath these fingers.
Harold unwraps them one by one, and feels inexplicably cruel.
"Call Fusco," John says. His eyes are still fixed at a point on the lamp post.
"Of course," Harold murmurs. The ability to perform affirmative action gives him a momentary centre of calm.
Harold makes the call in lowered voices while John staggers to his feet. He sways for a fraction of a second, and Harold steadies him with a hand. When Harold finishes the call, John is staring at him again.
"I'm going to wait till he gets here," John tells him. His eyes are still worryingly blank.
"Of course," Harold says. He will deny him nothing.
They wait around a darkened street corner, until Fusco arrives, mad-eyed and frantic. The background noise pick up again, but the darkness around them is quiet. John doesn't move a single muscle on his face, until Fusco has called despatch and they begins to wheel Carter off. He turns and starts to stalk away, as they loads her into the truck.
Harold falls a step behind, and watches John flinch as the truck door behind them bang shut with a loud noise of finality.
He doesn't apologise. He is more sorry than John will ever know.
They walk in silence. The library is more than twenty blocks away, but Harold says nothing. John leads them down darkened alleys and quiet sidewalks, avoiding the main street, through the less reputable parts of the city that Harold has never visited outside of a case. The occasional light from passing windows drowns John's darkened features; they never change.
They come to an abrupt stop five blocks later. Harold can't feel his legs.
"We should call for a car," John says. He looks detached from his words. "We had a car. I'm sorry."
Harold makes a jerky movement that is meant to resemble a shake of his head. "We can walk," he says.
It takes a while, but eventually John gives him a look. Somehow, a knot in the bottom of Harold's stomach loosens just a fraction because of that single expression.
He calls for a car.
John doesn't look surprised when they do not return to the library. He walks past the front desk of the hotel and straight into the discreet, suite-only elevator. Harold takes a minute to sort out the paperwork and finds John holding the door, finger on the open button and eyes at the ceiling.
They ride to the top floor, and John walks straight to the window, closing all the blinds. Harold sets the door key on the table and takes off his coat, procures a comprehensive first aid kit from the bathroom, and leaves it on the coffee desk.
For a moment, John doesn't turn back. He lifts a corner of the blinds and stares down: the wakeful night of New York, the aircraft warning lights blinks inconsistently like monster's eyes. Harold watches his face light up and go dark.
Then the telephone rings.
John doesn't comment on the fact that he has a landline installed in a hotel suite. Harold walks over to pick it up, and finds the string of letters he is already familiar with.
"Officer Simmons," he says. The low sound still echoes in the living room.
John makes no reply.
Harold allows himself to think again, that it's too late. Officer Simmons has already committed his violence, and —
He freezes.
At the window, John turns his shoulder a fraction of an inch away from the light. His eyes slide towards Harold, and they are — inexplicable.
Something terrible and powerful seizes Harold at the lungs. His attempt at a long, calming breath gets broken into erratic hitches, but he manages in the end. It takes him longer than necessary for him to realise that the horrifying stab at his chest isfear.
There is nothing he can do.
John's eyes return to the window, but he has already let the blinds fall back into its place. Harold imagines the mahogany shade is a canvas, where the intricate plan is already unfolding.
He does not think he can stop him. He is not sure he will try.
They remain in silence for a while longer, or possibly a long while. The intense fear near the centre of his chest eventually dissipates, absorbed into a low hum, interwoven into every fibre of his being. His shoulders are tense, but he is no longer shaking.
"Your wound needs tending," Harold says in the end. He is relieved to find his voice to be steady.
To his surprise and immediate alarm, John smiles. It has all the usual grace but none of the ardor. Harold scowls.
"You can't fix me this time, Harold," John says.
Harold inhales. He feels as if he is treading on water. "That has never been my intention," he answers.
"Mmm." John makes a noncommittal reply and shrugs with one shoulder. "The CIA always said I work better broken."
Harold frowns, feeling an ugliness unfold in his stomach. "I do not agree," he says. "I believe it is precisely your unbreakable spirit that made you an ideal candidate for the job."
John lets out a ruthless bark of laughter, "Unbreakable spirit," he repeats, as if hearing the phrase for the first time. Then his expression turn dark, and the words turn sour and bitter even on Harold's tongue.
"Your shoulder wound," Harold says again, because that is all that he can do.
John takes off the shirt without further protest, appearing at once tired and indifferent. Harold surveys the damage: the bullet made a clean exit, and the bleeding is not as profuse as he thought it would be.
He makes a quick job at cleaning the would site, and only allows himself a moderate amount of alarm when John does not react to the sting of disinfectant. He sees John's hands curled into fists, and he knows what illusion he's trying to hold onto. Harold makes no comment and moves to put the first aid kit away.
John has his eyes closed when Harold returns from the bathroom. Harold finds a blanket from the linen closet and carefully places it over John's torso, cautious of the possibility of shock. John doesn't move.
Harold stands at the foot of the coffee table and contemplates taking the bed for a brief second. The idea seems both welcoming and alien at the same time. In the end, he sits down next to John's reclined body and leans back onto the sofa himself.
"I know a guy from service," John begins as he settles into the cushion.
"No," Harold reacts easily, eyes falling closed. He is more surprised that he isn't really surprised.
"Excellent service record, good moral conscience —"
"No."
"— Probably better than mine, first class marksman —"
"No."
"— is currently in New York, divorced with very little —"
"John," Harold enunciates, soft. He is feeling strangely patient. "I will not."
The other side of the sofa falls silent. Harold finds himself listening to the sound of John's breaths, rising, falling. They sound unhurried and confident. It worries him more than the erraticity.
"Harold," John finally starts again. His words are slow and clear, every single syllable premeditated. "Don't let this stop you."
Harold's eyes fly open. He jerks upright, the entirety of his spine protesting at the sudden movement. He is equal parts scandalised and horrified: something white and hot is burning a hole through his throat. Inhale, exhale. His fingers are cold. He hasn't felt this unravelled since that fateful day on the dock.
"Mr. Reese," he says sharply. "Listen to yourself!"
John smiles again. His eyes are fluttering half-lidded, a strangely soft look made alarming by the harsh reality his words bring out. "I know how this is going to play out, Harold," John says. "I've known since the beginning. You said you knew, but I guess we both had just forgotten. But I know now."
Harold doesn't know what he's talking about. He doesn't think he knows anything anymore.
"When you offered me this job, you said sooner or later we will both end up dead," John continues. "But it's not true, is it?"
Beneath the lashes, he sees John's sharp gaze flickering to his face. Harold suddenly understands — and wishes he hadn't. His heart seems to be unfolding into itself, leaving a wrinkled absence in its stead.
"I lost Carter," John says. Harold uses every ounce of his control to stop flinching from the matter-of-fact tone in John's voice. "We nearly lost Fusco today. Shaw will take down as many as she can, but — " he swallows. Harold cannot seem to remove his eyes from John's face. Their gaze lock again.
"One day I will lose you," John says. His voice is low and soft, like he is telling a bedtime story. His lips even curl humourlessly in the end, a facsimile of a smile. "I'm good at losing people."
Harold can find no argument against the ugly grain of truth. He does not make promises he cannot keep. He has not made a promise in a long time.
"That is not a reason to preemptively bring about events that may or may not happen in the future," Harold says at last. He finds his voice equally low and deliberate, each word drawn out in the tangible moment.
"I didn't expect to be reconnected to the world," John responds inconsequentially.
Harold's mouth goes dry. John is looking at him passively, and the inflection in his words is simple, factual.
"If — when — I lose you, I will be — unplugged."
Harold lets out an incredulous, small exhale. "John," he says, the name escaping like a rush of air. "You cannot let — " He stops abruptly, eyes widening by just a fraction.
John smiles. "Phrase of the day," he says.
Harold shakes his head minutely. "Joss was right," he says, soft. Then, sliding out of its own accord, "I'm sorry."
John makes no reply, and Harold watches the thick lashes flutter close again. There does not seem to be any display of overt emotion on John's face, though Harold can see traces of anguish and regret in the thin lines near John's mouth. He says nothing.
Harold lets the silence stretch out, waits for a few moments, then gingerly leans back onto the sofa. His head feels strangely empty. He has a distinct feeling that something has changed, an old chapter completed in a book, at once a finality and a new beginning. He has no idea how the next one will proceed.
They sit in the quiet for a long time. The overhead light swathes in the living room in a sea of white, the only sound being the sirens that chase through the streets in the far background. It is inexplicably bright and dark at the same time.
"You know you can't stop me," John murmurs in the end.
"I am not able to, no," Harold agrees. He is strangely calm.
John doesn't challenge him on the clarification. "I will find him," he says, and it is a simple matter of fact.
"We will," Harold says. He emphasises neither word.
There is another moment of silence, and Harold turns slightly to his side. Next to him, John's lips curves upwards, then appears to be pulled down by the sheer force of gravity. His eyes are pinched, and there is fresh dampness underneath his lashes. He is breathing deeply, much deeper than before, and his hands unfurl, palm flat against his thigh.
Harold watches John's fingers unfold and twitch erratically to his heartbeat, then covers the hand with his own.
He does not know if John will be the perpetrator. He does not think there is anything he can do, if it turns out that way. He does not believe he can find it in his heart to stop Simmons from suffering a worse fate. He does not feel he has any resolve left.
He does not care.
There is nothing they can do, but they will, nonetheless.
END