Summary: With two new Numbers taped to their situation board, Finch and Reese are faced with the impossible situation of protecting two very high-profile victims with a seemingly endless list of potential threats. Unable to exposed the perpetrator, they find themselves barely staying ahead of the escalating attacks and quickly realize there are no safe options left in the city, but with a killer storm on the horizon, and not knowing how the killer will strike next, Finch and Reese must make some risky decisions to keep their Numbers, and themselves, alive.

Characters: The whole gang - Reese, Finch, Fusco, Carter and Bear

Themes: Crime, Action, Hurt/Comfort, and of course Whumpage (yup I love to beat up poor old John) and a bit of a long-awaited Romance for you Reese/Carter fans

Rated M to be safe - contains violence, some language, graphic medical details (but I'll warn you along the way) and romantic moments

(Authors Notes* This does follow my other three stories but it's not necessary to have read them to read this one. Just know that the last ones were pretty grueling for the team, and Reese and Carter had quite the heart to heart, laying all their cards out in "Twisted."

Previous Stories: Energy, Twisted, Death Dealer

ch 1

Reese sat across the street from the quaint two-story tutor style home. He felt exposed despite the tinted windows of the inconspicuous mini van, and having snuggly parked against a towering cypress with heedless disregard for the paint.

The neighborhood was one of those everyone's-in-everyone's business suburban nightmares. The kind of place where everyone lived in desperate hope they might witness the slightest deviation from the association's decreed normal, in an attempt to break free of the mind-numbing monotony. Reese had experienced a lot of things, survived a lot of things.., but he was pretty sure this place could undermine even the most ingrained of his survival training.

"Finch, there's no signs of any threat. Seriously... this place makes a church seem dangerous. You sure the machine didn't have a hiccup on this one?" He spun the lens of his camera, zooming on their Number's putterings. "She's been worrying her perfectly trimmed bushes to the point of butchering."

"You sound disappointed. I should think after our last cases, you'd be welcoming one of a... less intensive nature. Best enjoy the rest Mr. Reese, the machine just gave us two new Numbers."

"Already? Haven't even wrapped this one up yet. You hit the 'slave driver' setter?"

"The machine only sees what's actually going on, Mr. Reese. Though it does seem like the premeditated crimes have been overly abundant and taxing of late..."

He had to agree. Their last cases had been challenging, even for him, but Reese knew Harold's resulting injury sharpened his opinion to a very tangible edge. "You can't tell me you didn't enjoy a bit of field work, despite getting grazed. Besides, a lot women find scars sexy."

"On the contrary Mr. Reese, unlike you, I'm perfectly content running things from here and avoiding ever being shot again. And I do just fine with the ladies scars aside."

"Is that right?" Reese really wanted to know more about what 'ladies' he was referring to, but instead concentrated on his Number. "Ah Finch... so much for boring. Mrs. Simon's hobby just graduated to something a little more interesting."

"If I'm correctly interpreting your description of trimming bushes as 'interesting', then it must be of a more sinister nature?"

"Yup - no one fills their pockets with oleander leaves for decoration. Guess this makes her our perpetrator. I'd better head in."

The inside of the house, just like the outside, was every bit a reflection of its inhabitants - outwardly perfect and inwardly ready to crack.

Reese moved between the bushes along the side of the house to get a clear view through the first window.

The living room looked more like something out of a staged showroom than a real home. A virtual fireplace hung the wall, casting flickering light over stark white furniture, and walls empty of personality, character or warmth.

Reese spotted Mr. Simons perched on the white couch, reading a magazine while making every effort to appear comfortable, and failing miserably. John couldn't help notice an explosive tension just boiling under the surface. "Maybe Emily's a victim after all. This guy looks like he could turn axe-murder any second."

"Stay vigilant, it's often the most calm surface that hides worst monsters."

John soundlessly crept toward the back of the house, immediately spotting Mrs. Simons. She had her back to him, but it wasn't hard to see she tended something on the stove by the reflections in all the obnoxiously polished-steel. The kitchen boasting more stainless steal than his gun collection, he realized.

Mrs. Simons hovered over the steaming pot with a focused anticipation. "Finch, she's in the kitchen definitely cooking something, and I"m guessing there's more to it than the mulled cider I smell."

"If she is indeed cooking the oleander, then her intent is maliciously undeniable."

John climbed the stairs and quietly tested the door. He wasn't surprised to find it unlocked and even less, to find it opened with a lubed silence he was sure every door, drawer or hinge would share. If these people put as much effort into their relationship as they did their house, he might not need to be here.

As Emily picked up her tray and made for the living room, Reese swept passed the stove to fish a verifying leaf from the pot's edge before coming up behind her. "Oleander's not an actual ingredient for cider." Reese casually whispered as they both entered the living room.

Emily Simons spun around, spilling the contents of the cup on her spotless floor, while Bob nearly stumbled over an end table to flatten against the wall.

"Take w-what ever you what!" Bob stammered.

"I only want to stop your wife from making a mistake."

Emily's eyes narrowed, while her voice shook in rhythm with her hands. "Wh-h-who are you?"

"Someone who thinks divorce is a better choice over murder." Reese reached for the tray.

"HELP! Bob help!" Emily screamed.

Reese humorlessly laughed at her hypocritical pleas. "I know it smells good Detective, but I wouldn't suggest a taste." John slowly turned to meet the burley Detective now walking into the room.

Fusco quickly took in the scene and holstered his weapon. "Don't worry - Glasses filled me in. Oleander? Now I've seen it all, turn around." He ordered and snapped his cuffs into the shock-stricken woman.

"I don't know what you are talking about. Bob, tell them!"

"Seriously lady? Bob is white as a sheet and cowering over there lucky to be alive. He ain't gonna be savin' you. Should'a thought of that before you tried to off him." Fusco looked at Reese. "You'd better get gone. This neighborhood made you the moment you stepped outta your soccer-mom van. Cops'll be here any second."

"You are the cops Lionel." Reese smirked.

"Fine, let me rephrase it. The cops - that'd love to throw your ass behind bars - are on their way."

"I'm touched Lionel. You used to be one of those cops."

"Don't get me wrong, still am.." Fusco clarified but in a tone lacking sincerity. "Just get outta here and let me do my job."