John had slept, Finch knew, for more than twenty-four hours straight, without a twitch, mostly. Sure, he'd been imprisoned, interrogated, sleep deprived, denied food, water, beaten, hit by a truck, drugged, had a bomb strapped to his chest, had it nearly explode, all that with no sleep, except for when he was drugged, so sleep was necessary. The thank-you he gave Finch when he finally showed back up at the library was not necessary, and had he known the truth, he would not have offered that bit of gratitude. Really, it was a warped world where one thanked the man responsible for the very real death of everything true and good and innocent in the world. It is the macabre that makes urban legend horror stories just that little bit of plausible. The hook on the car door, trailing blood and muscle ripped from the arm of the would-be murderer, the monster in the closet, under the bed, the threatening phone call from inside the same very house, a thank –you to the man who had brought about the circumstances for possible death innumerable times, simply because he had not yet succeeded.
Finch's biggest mistake, the one that placed him in the center of so many people's lives, the one he worked so feverishly to right, knowing he could not, any more than John could bring back the countless dead he'd killed, wasn't building the machine, it was losing it, part of it anyway. Harold Finch was not his name, never was, it was the name of the machine, an inside joke, a name that would never lead anywhere, except to a laptop, that would be impossible, he thought, to decode. It was, mostly, but the name of the laptop was left much less protected, almost as if to mock anyone who tried to understand its secrets. Harold Finch, was far from the type of name that would command attention, yet it was regal and adaptive, a powerful survivor, which in the end was all that mattered, the alternative was to be dead and as much as he was becoming more ambivalent about death, by accepting it and even loving it as an end to the horrors he surrounded himself with, he was determined to wield his might, his shield and sword to be the maker of his future and of others. He was the commander of a small army that like all armies saved lives and ended others without much rhyme or reason when all was told. Monsters lived and angels died, and vice versa of course, always in balance to keep the game alive, to keep men commanding others to die for their good and righteous cause. It gave Finch pause on occasion to know that he was, in the end just a pawn in a game he barely caught glimpse of.
Power was a disease, a fever that consumed by fire. God must have finally come to understand that himself, so he freed us to our own will through which we had to fight to hear the whispering of that initial breathe breathed into us by a love so grand, that it held no strings, just the lingering memory, a conscience a choice, always a choice, no plan with contingencies, that was Finch's doing, just choices to be made while navigating a dark cavern filled with the loud thrum of fleeing batwings and screeches while listening for that silent whisper of will, not your own. That it existed was not lost on Harold Finch but that he could find or tap into that stream was. Finch's world was so clogged with machinations of his own that he didn't even try to hear. But, he could watch. He had snared a man into his web, a man who did listen and despite loss, betrayal, abandonment and intent to harm, he heard the compassionate voice that did not bring notice or fame or fortune, that brought nothing, actually, but comfort to someone else. Compassion brings nothing to the one who expends it, so why did John continue to always lead that way, why when given a choice did he always give comfort, give succor, lend a hand. Finch had no illusions and even tried numerous times to tempt John, allowing all he had to do was ask if he wanted more money, but of course, John never asked.