"Good morning, Mr. Reese," Harold said after a sip of tea, sensing a presence enter the room.
"Finch," John spoke – his usual curt reply.
"We have a new number," Finch said, trying to use a somewhat uplifting tone even though there was really nothing pleasant within his statement.
"Anything interesting?" John asked somewhat nonchalantly, taking off his jacket.
"Not particularly," Harold answered, picking up a photo to pin on the wall.
"Peter Alger," he pointed after tacking it up, "age 34, janitor. His face, you'll note," Finch gestured again, "has been disfigured, as has most of his body. He was involved in an obscure accident a few years ago – I'm having difficulty finding much about it. Based on the fact he graduated from Princeton, however, we can assume it left him quite handicapped."
"Rough luck," John said, moving closer to study the picture, "must have been a bad accident."
"It would certainly appear so," Harold said as he limped back to his computer.
Accident.
That word, and several others, had been circling his mind since Mr. Reese's slight "accident" on the pier three weeks before. Harold supposed there was nothing very accidental about it, aside from the fact he had accidentally instructed John to do it – with no knowledge he would actually almost kill himself, of course. Even though weeks had passed John was still being entirely elusive about how he had escaped a watery death, and how he had recovered from whatever happened so quickly. Harold had wanted to pry, but he knew it wasn't his place. John would share when he was ready. Finch could wait.
Waiting wasn't too much to ask when he knew the sacrifice John had made had been entirely for him. Then again, perhaps in the end it hadn't been. When it came down to it, John did what he did as much for Grace as for him – the two had really clicked. Harold rather liked it. He had John, the closest thing he'd come to a friend since Nathan, who he could count on without a doubt. He had Grace, the only woman he'd ever loved, who he could sit and laugh with again. He had the comfort of knowing the two closest to him shared a friendship, and that if anything should happen to him they had each other. He had it better than he had in a long, long time.
But what did John have?
Harold had been fruitlessly searching the man's eyes since his return, hoping to figure out which emotion was hiding behind them. He couldn't break that solid façade that John used to shield himself, though. Not without explicit allowance on the masked man's part.
"Where do you suggest I start the surveillance?" John questioned.
"I haven't quite determined that yet, I'm working on it; he seems to be a very reclusive man," Harold responded as he furrowed his brow and typed like a man possessed.
"I bet you two would really hit it off," John jested in his dry tone.
"Private people tend not to 'hit it off' with other private people, Mr. Reese," Finch responded with an inkling of a smile.
"How's Grace adjusting?" John asked after a slight pause.
"She's doing well, all things considered," Harold said as he squinted at the monitor, "I think she's quickly discovering both the ups and downs of being dead. I'll admit it's been somewhat challenging explaining to her what we do, she doesn't seem altogether convinced that you and I can't die again."
"I thought I was going to die, Harold," John said as casually as if he was speaking about the weather.
Ceasing his typing, Harold turned to face his ever-courageous coworker.
"The pier?" Harold asked quietly.
"Yes," John said with a nod, "I wasn't planning on coming back. Then I hit the water and the windshield shattered – and I knew I couldn't just sit there and die – so I fought. I remember making my way out, cutting myself a few times, but once I got into the water it was like a blackout. There are bits and pieces, I sort of remember swimming, but most of it is gone."
"That's not altogether surprising," Harold said with a slight nod, "both the physical and mental trauma would explain it. Why did you do it, though, John?" Harold asked with genuine grief in his voice, "there were other ways we could have handled it – ways that avoided you dying."
John shrugged off the question. If he wasn't ready to answer then Harold wouldn't meddle. Instead, he sat quietly and waited as Reese pondered what to say next.
"It was Carter," he finally continued.
"What do you mean?" Finch asked, perplexed.
"She came back for me," John said slowly, "she pulled me off the bank where I washed up and took me with her."
"But…" Finch began, thinking hard about where Carter had been. After bringing Grace to her apartment she must have gone to look for John immediately.
Why hadn't she told him?
"I don't know, either," John said as if he could read Harold's mind, "there are a lot of things I don't really know."
"Have you spoken to her about it?" Harold asked.
"No," John said with a shake of the head, "I haven't really spoken to her at all since I've been back. She kept me with her for nearly a week, and then it was like it never even happened."
Finch watched as John's brow wrinkled, and he let his own follow suit.
"Finch," John continued suddenly, looking into Harold's eyes, "please don't ask her about it."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Reese," Finch said sincerely, "I believe what happened is for you to sort out – I'm just happy you've divulged this much after three weeks of silence," Finch said with a small smirk.
The corners of John's mouth turned up ever so slightly as Harold heard his computer whir, and turned to examine his screen. Smiling with a familiar satisfaction, he struck a few keys and got out a pen. Ripping a small piece of paper off a pad, he jotted down an address for Mr. Reese.
"The apartment of one Mr. Peter Alger," he announced as he handed his partner the paper.
"Nicely done, Finch," John said as he rose, moving to get his jacket, "tell Grace I say hello."
With that, the tall man went striding out of Harold's sight.
