Harold is miserable. The last few weeks have been hell. His gunshot wound has almost healed but the wound in his heart will last forever. After John said goodbye on the rooftop Harold had left the building to get away, to be safe. The missile had hit and John was gone. The despair he felt at losing John settled around his shoulders like a cape. The hours after the missile strike turned in to days and the days turned into weeks. And still his mood hadn't lifted. He felt helpless.

There were things to do of course, erasing the files for all of John aliases. There was no need for them now. He had avoided talking to Fusco and Shaw, he didn't want to tell them that he'd survived and John had not. Fusco had started out as a corrupt cop and with John's influence had turned his life around. He had become a good partner to John when he had had to become Detective Riley forever. Shaw was John's counterpart, her training had been similar to his and they spoke the same language. It's true that Shaw was often more inclined to blow things up and shoot to kill than John. But he killed when the need arose and tempered it with just being menacing enough, that the criminals would be scared into changing their ways. If that failed, well there was always the knee capping. He knew though that at some point he would have to contact them, if only to make sure that Bear was taken care of.

He went about his daily tasks with a heavy heart. He still had to work as Professor Whistler. John was gone and he found it hard to just go on as though nothing had happened. A letter had arrived at Professor Whistler's apartment a few weeks after John's death; it was from Harold's lawyer. The letter listed Harold as next of kin and contained instructions on what to do with John's possessions should he die. Harold hadn't known that John had done this but knew that he was in all things a practical man. He had informed his lawyer that John had died as there were sums of money in the various bank accounts of John's aliases that needed to be closed. The letter had instructions on what to do with them as well as the apartments. The apartment in Baxter Street was easy to do. John had abandoned it reluctantly when their lives had been changed by the Samaritan threat; it still had some of Johns few possessions. The suits Harold would donate, and the rest was mostly made up of guns and ammunition. He would get Shaw to dispose of it. He wasn't looking forward to her questioning him. He supposed there was no real reason to keep the loft. He was going to leave New York as soon as he could anyway. He wasn't going to work the numbers any more, how could he when John wasn't there to help. Shaw was good but she wasn't John.

Clearing Detective Riley's apartment was more difficult. They had spent so many nights there over dinner, the TV or just in companionable silence. It had been difficult at first. He was so worried that Samaritan would find them, that their covers would be blown, that he'd pushed John away. But, John being John, he wouldn't stay away for long. In the end he had convinced Harold that the only way they could be seen together was for him to pose as Harold's boyfriend. At work it was hard dealing with the questions about his absent boyfriend's whereabouts.

Harold smiled grimly to himself nothing had happened between them, (now he wished it had) but the cover had served its purpose and both of them had felt less stressed and much calmer for it.

Harold had these thoughts while he was clearing the apartment. He would donate the suits with the others, but he kept the old leather jacket that had been the one John favoured when he rode the Ducati. Holding it close it had the faint smell of John still clinging to it. Everything of John's smelt purely of him. He wouldn't use scented colognes or aftershaves. He'd often told Harold that those things could get a person killed out in the field; a tracker dog would have no problem finding him. He left all the dishes and equipment but cleared the fridge and stripped the bed. There were no photos, no mementos to remember John by; he was used to moving from one place to the next in a hurry. So it wasn't a good idea to accumulate things to carry around.

Harold was about to leave the apartment when he saw an envelope propped up on the mantelpiece. He wondered why he hadn't noticed it before; walking over to it he saw that it had his name on it. Briefly he panicked that someone had been in the apartment. Opening it inside there was a card, and a piece of paper. The card had instructions for Harold to use John's laptop, including the password to access it. The piece of paper had a note written in John's familiar scrawl, it said "Relax Harold, no one has been here I left this for you" he'd signed it and John had drawn a smiley face. Harold relaxed a bit, knowing that his fears were unfounded. He smiled for the first time in what seemed like ages; trust John to make him feel better. Looking after him still. John had obviously returned to the apartment at some point, to put the envelope where Harold would eventually see it.

He had no trouble finding the laptop as he knew where John had kept it. Harold plugged it in and turned it on, he was curious about the file. He entered the password and the file was revealed to him. He opened it, inside were two folders. The first, when he opened it, contained pictures, not many but a few of Harold and John together, in the library, in the subway, out on the town.

He touched the screen, as a fat tear ran down his face; John looked so handsome in his tuxedo.

He continued with the photos, some were of him and Bear together, some of John playing with Bear, there were pictures of Carter and Fusco, there were even some pictures of Root and Shaw. Harold didn't know when they had been taken but it was nice to see them. He was feeling choked up, there were more pictures of John laughing and smiling something he didn't do often. His normal face was neutral and his mean face was, well, mean. There were pictures of John with Harold patching him up, pictures of them eating dinner, or doughnuts. Harold felt another tear roll down his cheek. When he clicked on the last picture it was a note, it said open the other file Harold.

So he did.

He was greeted with a picture of John, smiling in his trademark suit and shirt, his eyes were sparkling and he was clean shaven (for once Harold thought) scrolling down he came upon the text.

He began to read

Haahh Harold, if you are reading this it must mean that I didn't make it. That's a shame.

Harold began to cry harder, "No" he whispered to the screen, "it should have been me."

The file continued

Please don't feel bad Harold, when you offered me the job you said it would be dangerous, that we might end up dead, really dead. Do you remember that day Harold? You bailed me out of the police station. I'm sorry I took the money from your body guards; but it was easy to pick their pockets. It gave me enough money to get a room, some clothes, a haircut, a shower and a shave and there was enough left over for some booze.

Imagine my confusion when I came round to find myself in another hotel, tied to the bed! I did everything I could to get to the screaming woman. I broke a very expensive mirror to get out of the zip tie. I was angry with you for tricking me; I could have killed you, you know that don't you? You knew I wouldn't but I could have. Do you know why I took the job Harold? You said you chose me for my skills, but I also chose you too. I was curious about what you were doing, and what you wanted me to do. I figured that if I didn't like it I could always cut my losses and go back to the street. I didn't want to but it was an option.

I didn't bother correcting you when you said my name, John Reese. It wasn't my real name but you knew that and it was as good as any other name. Everyone thought I was dead any way so it didn't seem to matter much. But you, I knew you weren't giving me your real name as soon as you said 'you can call me Mr Finch'. So what was your real name Harold? I never did find it out. Amongst other things, I never managed to find your home, your real home either. Ha! So much for being an international spy! In the end I gave up trying. I thought that if I did a good job the blanks would be filled in but they weren't. You never were going to tell me more than I really needed to know for each case were you Harold? You know it's funny but in the end it doesn't really matter.

You gave me six new identities, bank accounts and credit cards. You paid me an obscene amount of money every month, but I think you knew where I sent most of it. I didn't really need the money anyway, you paid for everything. You gave me a home, food, clothing, anything I wanted. The loft was wonderful but much too big for just one. I'd been used to cheap motel rooms with the CIA and a bed in the barracks in the army, no private space to be had anywhere. But the loft also gave me a sense of freedom; I could do what I wanted when I wanted when I was there. It is nice to have you over for dinner once in a while. I love to cook you see, but it always seemed like too much trouble for just one person.

The only things I had to get for myself were the guns. I knew you hated firearms but they were useful and easy enough to steal from the various mobs. Anton's was only the first. My favourite gun was the Sig-sauer, small enough to fit in the back of my pants but big enough that my large fingers didn't pull the trigger or release the safety catch by mistake. You knew I was a killer, an assassin, but I stopped killing (mostly) and disabled them instead. Was that better than killing them? I don't know but it made you feel better and that's what counted to me.

Did you ever stop and think about why I began bringing you tea and pastries? I noticed you didn't always stop to eat much and sometimes you didn't drink either. It was my way of saying "here friend have something to eat." And we did become friends didn't we? It took a while but we got there in the end. I melted your frosty employer / employee stance a bit too. It was fun needling you sometimes, just to get a rise out of you. I loved the way you would huff at me.

Harold paused in his reading; his emotions were all over the place. He could hear John's voice as he read. He could imagine the twinkle in his eyes and the smirking curl of his lips when he was teasing or flirting with him. Harold had recognised that John loved to flirt, had listened to him over the comms link often enough.

He went back to reading.

Did you wonder why I stayed all those late nights with you in the library? It wasn't because I needed to tidy up all the time, even though the army had trained me to be neat. I did find the books scattered all over the place difficult to ignore. I tried to read all those novels you were so keen on but I guess I've always been an action kind of guy; the thrillers were what gave me my escapism. But the truth is I was lonely, and I felt you were too.

Over time Harold I realised I was attracted to you, little by little my feelings grew. When Root kidnapped you the first time I realised that I was in love with you. I kept my feelings to myself but I couldn't help but flirt with you. It made me feel so good. The times when I 'accidently' touched your fingers giving you the tea, sometimes I forgot myself and put a hand on your shoulder. At first you pulled away but in the end you just didn't react at all. But all those little touches, the words in my ear when I went out for the numbers meant a lot to me.

You accused me of being reckless, running headlong in to trouble, having no regard for my own safety. It's true I did do those things. But did you ever ask yourself why I did them? I tried to make sure that any injuries I got were not too bad. I admit I got it wrong a couple of times but as long as you could patch me up I was happy. Your sewing skills were helpful; my scars became neat rows, healing smoothly. I loved the soft way your fingers gently cleansed and dressed my wounds. I treasured those touches.

When I did go back to the loft I would replay the words and the touches in my mind as I jerked off fantasising about you touching my body Harold. Making me come, but it never happened did it? I wished it had but I kept my feelings to myself. You didn't want me that way, it was obvious. You kept telling me how great and good Grace was and how much you loved her. It hurt me Harold, really hurt, but it wasn't your fault really, I should have been bolder, we should have been bolder. I should have spoken up but I didn't, Mea Culpa.

After Root kidnapped you the second time I was ready to kill her myself but something stopped me. I still don't know why I didn't just put a bullet in her brain. All I know is I didn't want to hurt you. And you seemed to have forgiven her, so I left her alone. It was then I decided that you had to be protected no matter what; regardless what you had told your machine. I made a pact with her. She would help me to protect you. You were someone the world couldn't do without. We have or rather you have Samaritan to beat with your virus programme. I wonder now if it will work, I hope so.

And now it's too late for anything, the next few hours will either see the end of Samaritan or the machine. I don't know if I will survive what's coming or not, but I'm not afraid to die Harold; it's been on the cards since I left the army. You gave me five more years than I would have had and I'm grateful for that. You gave me a purpose and a reason to live. So don't grieve too long for me Harold; I hope that you will remember me with fondness if that's possible. Have a good life and remember I love you with every fibre of my body.

Always John

Harold broke down; great big sobs escaped his throat. The tears fell freely as he finally realised the depth of his friend's feelings for him. He hadn't known how John felt about him. The grief that he had held in check for so long came flooding out. He cried until his eyes were red, his throat sore from the deep wracking sobs as he finally began to deal with his loss. He cursed himself for the wasted time. He had been attracted to John almost from the beginning. He had realised it and just like John had pushed his feelings to one side. All because of some stupid idea that they would have been crossing some line between the employer and employee relationship. He cried then for the two of them, they were both broken, lonely men, each too stubborn to make the first move. Gradually the tears slowed and the sobbing stopped. Harold dried his eyes and splashed water on his face. Then he closed the laptop, taking it and the suits and jacket he left the apartment.

A few weeks later he left New York taking the laptop with him and over the intervening years on special occasions such as John's birthday he would take out the lap top and look at the photos, and re read John message. He would raise a glass to his friend and remember him to his dying day.

7