Third installment of our "White Interest" universe. You will need to read the two previous stories for this to make sense…
Timing: the story begins at the end of season 6 for White Collar, end of season 4 for Person of Interest (Prologue is during mid-season 4 of POI).
Yellowstone69 & Arches67, together again, because after Neal's "death", we had to wrap up our universe.
My warmest thanks to Zendog for the beta reading. Any mistake left is mine. If some stuff sounds "different" please remember that English is not my first language.
Prologue
Decommissioned subway station, November 2014
John entered the old subway station turned headquarters and put a cup of tea by Finch's hand. He didn't get to do that very often lately, not as often as he did when they worked in the Library. Because of his work as a detective, he couldn't come in every morning anymore.
"Good morning, Finch."
"Mr. Reese," Finch answered, eyes fixed on the cup.
After a few seconds of silence, John wondered what was wrong.
"It's only a cup of the green Sencha tea, you know, the one you like, Harold. I haven't brought you any lately; it doesn't mean I've forgotten your tastes."
"That was how you had found out about Grace…" Finch whispered.
John raised an eyebrow in surprise. Finch wasn't one for cheery welcomes, but this sounded definitely maudlin.
"Something wrong?"
Finch remained silent for a few seconds, then turned to his employee.
"Do you ever wonder about our… enterprise?"
The ex-agent frowned. There was definitely something going on here. After all, Finch was the one who had started all this. He was the one who had come to get him to help with the numbers. The one who had realized that doing nothing was not an option. If anyone questioned the Machine and its purpose it was John, not its maker.
"We have a new number?" he asked wondering if the Machine had come up with a number that Finch maybe thought they shouldn't take care of.
"No." Finch sighed. "Rather news about a previous one."
He sounded defeated. He opened a page on his computer and turned the screen toward his employee. It was an obituary.
John felt his blood turn to ice. On the top corner of the page was a name all too familiar.
"Neal is dead?" he whispered not believing the words on the screen.
He fell into a chair staring at Finch with a distraught look, his eyes misting.
In his mind's eye he could still clearly see the young man's brilliant smile, his mischievous look, and clear eyes. He remembered the last time he had seen him, his face so full of love it almost hurt to watch.
"How…" he managed to utter.
"He was shot." Finch exhaled deeply. "I did some thorough research to check the information. After all, he has been known to fake his death before…"
"The shark mauling?" John remembered with a light smile. He had spent quite some time going over the information Finch had gathered on Neal during their first case. It had proved quite entertaining.
"Unfortunately, this is no… con. Agent Burke himself officially identified the body at the morgue."
"Peter must be devastated…" John whispered downcast.
"Why didn't the Machine warn us?" he carried on accusingly, then immediately regretted his outburst. He knew how the Machined worked. This wasn't Finch's fault.
"The Machine only sees premeditation, you know that. He got shot while running away." Finch's tone was calm, not bothered at all by the accusation. He totally understood how his colleague felt.
"He always hated guns," John said, his eyes lost.
"With good cause it would seem."
John closed his eyes. They had lost Shaw and now Neal was dead. Samaritan was getting more powerful and more dangerous every day. The list of their losses was beginning to be too long. His chest felt tight, he needed air. He couldn't breathe down here.
It all seemed so pointless. Maybe Finch was right. Why should they even bother…?
He rose on unsteady legs.
"Tell me we don't have a new number," he prayed.
"No," Finch answered softly.
John nodded and left their hiding place. He let his feet carry him around the city, not looking where he was going, lost in the memories of the young man. He finally ended up on the Upper East Side. He raised his head surprised at finding himself in front of June's mansion. He remembered the view from the terrace, Neal's expressive face as they talked during their first encounter...
He quickly climbed to the opposite building's roof, going back to the spot from where he had spied Neal the very first day, before he had been invited to have a drink.
The terrace was exactly the same. The loft was empty. Inside, white sheets were covering the furniture. An unfinished canvas was testimony to the talent of the last inhabitant of the place. The painting was still on the easel, as if waiting for the final strokes of a brush. No one had seemed brave enough to put it away…
"Bye Neal. Enjoy your freedom," John whispered, his throat tight.
TBC…
AN/ We'll let you dry your tears, and be right back …