Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. I'm also not making any money from this.

"Guess Snow retired after all." Listening to the car alarms and chaos far below in the aftermath of the explosion, Reese shuddered. Kara had managed to do something to Mark that he hadn't thought probable: she'd broken him. Snow was one of the coldest men he'd ever known-no pun intended-and built to be a spy, but Kara's sadistic streak had ultimately prevailed. Mark had well and truly given up. Anyone would, given enough time, enough pressure. It was the nature of humanity, if you had any in you. John had come to doubt that about Snow, but getting blown up was a hell of a way for Mark to prove him wrong. Reese shuddered again. He'd almost been blown up, too. He still could be, with the amount of explosives strapped to his chest.

Before he knew he'd moved, he'd shoved his gun back into the waistband of his pants and was tearing off his jacket and shirt. He looked down at the wires, the cell phone trigger, his hands grappling, trying to make sense of it, to get it off, when suddenly Finch grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands away firmly. "Stop."

His eyes snapped up to meet Finch's and his vision swam.

"Come sit down, Mr. Reese. I'll take care of it."

John was about to ask where since they were on a rooftop, but apparently Finch was a step ahead with the logistics and led him to a brick frame about three feet high that enclosed one of the building's air-handling systems. He watched as though from outside himself as Harold deftly detached wire after wire and unwound strips of duct tape, electrical tape. He hissed in discomfort when Finch pressed a hand to his chest to steady some delicate task he was performing with a circuit board. It was then that John realized he was shaking, full-on trembling, as though he were outside in a t-shirt on a sub-zero day. "S-sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes and willing his body to still. He shook harder.

"I'm almost done, John. Just one more...there."

Reese didn't open his eyes until at last he heard the ripping sound of the velcro closures of the vest. Then it was gone and he was shivering in just a t-shirt in the cold air. And then he wasn't. He blinked. Somehow Finch had gotten him back into his discarded clothing, sans death-vest, and was now working on the buttons. "Harold?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

Although he made no conscious decision to do so, John suddenly found himself embracing his employer fiercely. Finch stiffened for a moment in surprise, then slowly relaxed, returning the gesture with equal intensity. After nearly a minute, though, the shorter man tried to pull back and cleared his throat when John didn't do the same. "Uh, Mr. Reese? I really think we should..."

John let out a weak chuckle. "Sorry, Harold. Kind of having a hard time standing just now...give me a minute."

Finch mentally chastised himself for the oversight. Reese hadn't just been nearly blown up. He'd also been in a serious car accident, and prior to that was incarcerated for several days, interrogated relentlessly, and beaten at the hands of prison inmates. Of course he was injured. He'd winced in pain a dozen times during the removal of the vest alone. "It's all right, John. Take your time," he murmured, splaying his hand against the middle of his friend's back in a small gesture of reassurance.

It was a good half-minute more until Reese managed to straighten enough that Finch felt confident in taking a step back. John's eyes were bloodshot and drooping, and any color that normally lit his features had been stolen by the traumas he'd recently been dealt. He looked ill, haunted, utterly spent. Silently, Finch took his arm and guided him slowly back the way they'd come. "Will you be able to make it down the stairs? My car is in the next alley over."

"I think so."

The 'If you don't mind propping me up and stopping every floor or so,' was left unspoken, but its reality wasn't unexpected, and Finch tried not to be too alarmed by Reese's weakened state as they descended flight after flight of stairs. If he ran through the facts, it made sense. Four days of very little sleep, very high stress, untold physical injuries, and it was a wonder John was on his feet at all.

By the time they reached his apartment building, though, the adrenaline was long faded, and Reese was running on the fumes of his fumes. Harold managed to get him into the elevator, but John's knees buckled on the way down the hall, and though he remained conscious, the last fifteen feet around the corner to his door may as well have been a mile. Finch eased him to the floor and sat down next to him, pulling out his cell phone.

Some time later, Finch heard the elevator chime and looked up to see Jason Santori walking toward them. If the young P.A. was at all phased by the sight of the two worn-out men sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in a dark apartment hallway, he didn't let on, and crouched beside Reese, immediately pressing his fingers to the side of the sleeping man's neck.

"You weren't kidding, Harold," he said when John didn't stir, a measure of concern making its way into his voice and expression as he looked at Finch. "He was more alert than this the night he was shot..." Santori trailed off as though something had occurred to him, and he reached to unbutton John's jacket.

Finch waved him off. "No gunshots this time, thank goodness. Just the car crash and boxing match, to my knowledge."

"And exhaustion, dehydration, possible fever," Jason listed quietly, almost to himself. "I hate to wake him, but we need to get him inside."

Together they eventually managed the latter, but Finch would argue that John had at no point been truly awake. He'd opened his eyes halfway after much prodding from both of them, but aside from some meager shuffling of his feet, he hadn't done much in the way of actual walking, and was out again as soon as he was lying down.

Undressed, the cuts and contusions stood out glaringly on Reese's body, accented by his pallor and the charcoal gray sheets beneath him, but a thorough examination revealed no serious injuries beyond bruised ribs. He'd be stiff and sore, but a day or so in bed would start the healing process and combat the majority of the exhaustion, and food and fluids would do the rest. So Jason advised, but made no move to leave.

When it neared midnight, Finch called him on it. "I think I can take it from here, Mr. Santori. You should head home, before your wife takes me off of her Christmas card list again."

The dark-haired young man smirked at him. "I texted Maddie on my way over here. She doesn't expect me home tonight, which is a good thing since I have no intention of leaving until I'm sure John is fully stable, and you need to get some rest yourself."

Finch frowned, a mixture of concern and annoyance. "I don't see how the two are related."

Santori shook his head and sighed. "Harold...I've known you for quite awhile now. Specifically, I watched you watch over him last winter," he nodded toward Reese. "You didn't sleep. You barely ate. You fired two nurses. Frank will have my hide if I let you do that again."

"I didn't know Frank was so fond of his nursing staff," Finch said with a smile, slowly unfolding himself from his chair and stretching his neck. He looked across the room at the still form under the blankets. "John's really all right?" he asked.

Jason nodded. "He will be. He's running a low-grade fever-not surprising with what he's been through-but I expect it will improve by morning. Until then, I'll keep an eye on him. Ergo, you go. Eat, shower, sleep. I'm sure there's something to be had in the fridge, and there's a perfectly good sofa over there when you're done."

Finch watched Reese for a moment or two longer before giving an absent nod of assent to Jason. There weren't many men Finch allowed to tell him what to do. There weren't any, in fact. When Frank Izard chose to hire Jason, Harold very nearly chose to find a new physician. The skinny kid with the thick, shaggy black hair had been-and still was-the antithesis of everything he liked about Frank. Santori was also downright intelligent, and quite willing to try to tell Harold what to do, which was the essence of the problem. Shortly after meeting him, Finch had told Frank in no uncertain terms that Jason Santori was not to have any part in his medical treatment if Frank wished to remain employed.

The arrangement had worked out well for a time, up until a string of particularly bad days had culminated in a Saturday when Finch's usual medications were about as effective as the average glass of water. In the haze of too many hours of agony, Harold had paged Frank, forgetting it was the weekend of the doctor's annual golf tournament in California, and Jason had shown up at his door instead. But, rather than asking him a few hundred useless questions about the location and numerical value of his pain as every doctor new to his case always did, Santori just cut to the chase and helped him back to his couch, gave him a once-over, asked how many pills he'd already taken, and injected him with the really good stuff without further question.

It didn't occur to Finch until later that Jason's knowledge of his condition had to be a result of Frank sharing information against his wishes, but, to his surprise, he didn't mind much. Especially since Jason had stayed and kept him comfortably dosed and immobile until the worst was over. After that, there had been far less friction between the two of them. Harold would still snipe at the man irritably from time to time-Santori had a bit of a mother-hen complex-but would generally heed his advice when it was important. And send his wife a fruit basket when that advice had the man making extended house calls, like tonight.

Finch went through the motions of making and eating a sandwich while Santori sat at the table poking at his iPad with a stylus. He showered on a further degree of auto-pilot, and by the time he returned to the living room, he needed no urging to stretch out on Reese's sofa and shut his eyes for awhile.

Harold slept well into the next morning and awoke to find that Jason had gone, save for a sheet of instructions and a bottle of pain medication he'd left on the counter for John. Finch picked up both and looked across the room, surprised to see his friend sitting partially-upright in bed, staring out the window at the chilly gray sky. Reese was still pale, still looked beyond tired, but Jason had gotten him into a t-shirt and pajamas at some point, and there was an empty water bottle on the nightstand next to one that was about two-thirds full. It was progress, Finch thought as he crossed the space, and was about to say something to alert the other man to his presence, but Reese beat him to it.

"Harold. Have a nice nap?"

"If by nap you mean a full eight hours, then yes. You?"

Reese shrugged. "Nicer now that I can take it here," he said, going back to staring out the window.

"I can only imagine. I'm sorry I wasn't able to get you out of there sooner, or away from her."

"Not your fault, Harold. I screwed up."

Finch sighed and shook his head at the guilt in Reese's voice. "You did what you felt was right, John. There were consequences, yes, but we worked through them. Your past is once again just that. Best to focus on what's next."

"Do we have another number?"

"Not yet, but you have the day off regardless."

"I'll still stop by the library later, check on Bear."

Finch shot him a stern look. "Knowing Mr. Santori, that's not on this list, and what's on here is all you'll be doing today, Mr. Reese." Softening his tone, he added, "Not that Bear wouldn't be thrilled to see you, but I'm afraid he might be a bit...exuberant...for your present state."

A ghost of a smile crossed John's face, but it became pained when he tried to shift position. "I'm afraid you might be right about that, Harold."

"When did you last take one of these?" Finch asked, holding up the pills.

"Santori was still here, but I...honestly have no idea when that was," John said with a yawn.

"Probably not long ago. Why don't you lie down, try to sleep some more. I need to go feed Bear and run an errand or two, but I'll pick us up some sandwiches or something and stop back later on."

"Eggs Benedict."

"Pardon?"

"The diner has takeout, don't they? Pick up some eggs Benedict," John mumbled sleepily, gingerly sliding back down under the covers. "Didn't know if I'd...ever...again."

The words hit Finch like bullets, and he found his eyes suddenly burning as he looked down at his exhausted friend. No doubt it was the medication that had allowed the comment to slip out, but that didn't make the painful lump that had formed in Harold's throat any easier to swallow. He took a deep breath to regain his composure, placed the pills and the sheet of paper on the nightstand next to the water, and tugged carefully on the blankets until they were fully covering Reese. "Eggs Benedict it is," he said softly. "Sleep well, John."