A/N: So, I've gotten the slightest bit – *cough*extremely*cough* – obsessed with Jim Caviezel, and it's all the fault of The Count of Monte Cristo. Then came Person of Interest, Escape Plan, and Outlander, in that order. Then I read up on his characters, and found something fun on the PoI Wiki for John Reese - John H- - -s, the name on his military records. What other character do we know with a surname that starts and ends with those letters? Hobbes. Warden Willard Hobbes, from Escape Plan. So, that's where this came from.
No, it's not a watertight headcanon, but I liked the idea, so… I dunno, it's fanfiction! That's what fanfiction is for!
I don't own Person of Interest or Escape Plan, I just made a connection and a plot bunny appeared from it.
PS. Keep in mind that I don't know much about how the legal shebang goes down for this kind of thing. I'm a kid with a cold right now, and my head isn't in the right place for proper research on the subject, I'm just doing my best.
Next of Kin
"Mr. Reese, I don't want to alarm you, but there is something I believe you'll want to see. Come to the library as soon as you're available."
The message didn't sound urgent, and Finch would certainly tell him if there was some life-threatening issue coming to light with themselves or whatever number they were dealing with on a given day, so Reese hadn't thought much of it as he made his way back to the library after wrapping up their latest case – nothing unusual; some rich guy hiring a guy to take out his wife to be with some other woman. Nothing he hadn't dealt with before.
The unmasked worry on his co-worker and friend's face was setting off a warning bell, however. Finch was usually better about hiding whatever he felt – life-threatening situations aside. That was one of the first things John had noticed when he'd met the man.
Whatever this was, it was serious.
"What is it, Finch?"
"After our… altercations with the CIA and FBI, I took the liberty of setting up a hidden trigger in your old personal files that would notify us should anyone come looking for you again." Harold began to explain, and a few of said files opened on the monitors as he spoke, the ones that had been triggered.
Birth certificate, military file, last known address.
"I was able to track down the computer that opened the files, and I'm afraid that whoever tripped the system is quite close, Mr. Reese. Given the files on the computer, I'm not sure how they've come as close as they have. Especially considering you're legally dead."
"That would be enough to get a person off the scent…" John agreed quietly. "Unless they got a tip from someone, someone who knows I'm alive."
It wasn't extremely unlikely, there was bound to be someone that recognized him, pointed this person in the right direction. It was unfortunate, but not impossible.
"The question remains – why?"
Harold sent Reese out after that, insisting he get some rest before a new number came in and assuring him that yes, he would call John if he found anything out. The respite was welcome – the problem with rich people is they could afford to hire bodyguards, and occasionally those bodyguards landed some unfortunately good hits – occupied as it was with curiosity and worry over who the hell could be looking for a dead man.
As welcome as sleep was, John hoped Harold would call with some new information soon.
MOROCCO MARKET NEWS
Illegal for-profit prison organization uncovered –
Privatized Incarceration Scandal Jeopardized Human Rights
"But what does that have to do with…" With John?
It was no great undertaking to get into the person's computer, and that was the first relevant file he'd pulled up. A few more identified the user – Beth Reyes – and why exactly she was looking for John. The news article and other documents detailing the illegal prison named The Tomb, along with files of one of the listed deceased in a long line of the prison's employees – the majority of which appeared to be ex-military, Finch noted – identified only through dental records, as the body was burned beyond recognition.
Entering a search on the deceased from the file, Harold understood why Ms. Reyes was searching for John when a picture of the person opened on one of his monitors.
"Oh my…"
"Willard Hobbes, born September 26th 1968 in Puyallup, Washington. He's listed as the warden of an illegal prison that went up in flames off the coast of Morocco a few weeks ago. He was among the several dozen deceased that the authorities found when shutting down the operation."
"How does that explain why Reyes is looking for Reese?" Shaw cut in skeptically. Harold gave her a briefly annoyed look before he continued.
"I was getting to that, Ms. Shaw. After I found the files on the prison, I looked into Mr. Hobbes a little closer. Though, the answer came to me quite quickly." With a few keytaps, the file Harold had found the previous night reopened, along with the report filed after his body was found and identified.
"…Woah."
Well, that was an understatement.
"It would appear that Ms. Reyes is trying to find John to identify him as Warden Hobbes' next of kin. Given that Hobbes had neither a spouse nor children, the next in line would be… siblings." Siblings, in this case an identical twin. An identical twin named John. Thought to be dead, but if one had the right information, as Reyes appeared to, they would know otherwise.
"My brother..." John murmured. My brother's dead. It was a numb thought, though one that Reese was sure would impact him fully later.
They hadn't spoken in years, especially once he was recruited by the CIA, but it was hard to push away memories of childhood, two boys practically attached at the hip until high school – the connection faded when John had had to choose between joining the military or jail time. Monthly phone calls turned into annual ones, and total silence began when Kara Stanton came into the picture, firmly insisting that he no longer had 'old friends' or family.
How the hell had Willard gotten himself into this? An illegal for-profit prison on an oil-tanker, killed in an explosion during an inmate's escape.
But then, it didn't matter how anymore, did it?
There wasn't a funeral, not really. An anonymous contact had it arranged for Hobbes' remains to be buried in New York, but no grieving friends or family members were in attendance. Only a man, largely concealed in the shade of a tree a ways off from the new grave, and nobody who could've seen him could really say for sure that he was there for the burial.
And nobody could really say for sure that that man approached the grave later on, or that he left a yellowing photo of two identical little boys at the foot of the gravestone before walking away.
A/N: Teeny drabble, something that wouldn't get out of my head. Enjoyed it? Hated it? Want something else to do with this crossover? I have one in mind, and I have something of a sequel planned for this. Still in the works, but I may just post it if anyone wants to see it.
Keep in mind that I wrote this with a nasty headache (possibly a cold) - any spelling or any other kind of errors are entirely because of that.