A/N: This is essentially a one-shot and I'm marking it as complete. However, I may potentially add an epilogue chapter of sorts. The epi chapter was just something that wouldn't leave my mind until I'd gotten it down, but I'm still debating whether or not to include it, simply because I quite like where this ends as it is. We shall see. In the meantime…enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. I am merely borrowing for my own enjoyment and am not making any money from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement intended.
~O~
Finch clicked off his computer and turned in his chair. He looked about the room. It was odd, the kind of void a person left behind. It had always been a source of constant vexation for him to see pistols, shotguns, and various other weaponry strewn haphazardly about the library as if they were nothing more than common household items. Now he would have welcomed just a little of that disorder. The room felt empty without it.
Shaw was every bit as crass as Reese when it came to firearms—more so, in fact—but she was much more highly strung and ordered. It was rare that she would carelessly leave her weaponry about. Instead she would keep them stored in an assembly-like fashion—while admittedly in some of the strangest locations, many of which Finch would rather not think about—for easy access and a much more formidable site to look upon. Though, he often wondered if Reese had been deliberately disorderly, enjoying getting a rile out of his employer for his efforts. Not in a malicious way by any means, mind you. While it was true that Reese could kill with incredible equanimity and possessed skills like no other, he wasn't without compassion. He was a heavily guarded individual who often hid behind his casual, indolent demeanor and brazen jokes. When you had seen and done the kinds of things Reese had you did what you could to survive. It was as simple as that. But behind it all was a good man, Finch knew. It was the subtle disturbances that would give him away.
Before he had known the extent of Finch's gun phobia Reese had once taken things a bit too far in his attempts to condition the older man to firearms. He had backed down the moment he'd realized. Another telling example was the aftermath of Finch's kidnapping by Root. He had not only been surprisingly astute and considerate of the older man's volatile mental state during that time but had also tactfully avoided outright acknowledgement of it to spare Finch the discomfiture. Few were privy to the gentler side of John Reese, but Finch had worked in close quarters with the man long enough to have witnessed it on more than one occasion.
Shaw on the other hand was much more ruthless in her approach. Quite frankly, she often scared Finch. Not that Reese couldn't be fearsome if he wanted to be. Fortunately Finch just hadn't yet been on the receiving end of that stick. He hoped to never have that particular privilege.
Finch's reminiscing and psychoanalysis was interrupted by a low, pitiful whine. Bear had appeared at his feet. The dog nudged his leg in an irritated fashion. Finch wasn't the only one feeling the void. Bear hadn't been the same since John had fled. He reached down to give the animal a consoling pat and Bear dropped something by his foot. Finch looked down at it.
A partly chewed leather gun holster.
Reese's gun holster.
Bear looked at it, and then up at Finch expectantly, throwing in another pitiful whine for good measure.
Finch gave him a few more consoling pats. "You and me both," he muttered, "you and me both."
His gaze landed then on the top photo on the desk in front of him.
The man in the photo was tall, lean, and unkempt. And barely recognizable.
But there was no doubt that it was him.
At least you know he's alive, Finch reminded himself.
It hadn't been easy finding him, those intermittent times of not knowing if he was alive or dead the hardest. But knowing wasn't as much of a blessing as it should have been. The man in the photo was a far cry from the John Reese Finch knew.
"I can't say I'm crazy about the bearded look."
Finch nearly jumped out of his chair. Shaw was standing over his shoulder.
"I really wish you wouldn't do that, Ms. Shaw," he said once his heart had jumped back into his chest, the disapproval clear in his voice.
"It's not my fault if you're so unobservant, Harold. You should get out more. Spending all this time obsessing here is going to your head." She hoisted herself up to sit on the edge of the desk and crossed her arms over her chest.
Finch pursed his lips. "I take it you were successful?"
"Yep. Lionel's taking our guy into custody as we speak."
"Good." There was a long pause. "I didn't call you here about another number."
"I figured," she said, nodding at the photos.
Finch's eyes landed on the top photo again, and there was a moment of pregnant silence before Shaw sighed.
"It's been over a month, Harold."
"I'm aware of that, Ms. Shaw."
She leaned forward to fix him with her stare. "He doesn't want to be found. We can hardly drag him back here against his will."
"I've no such intention."
She leaned back and gave him a skeptical look. "This is about your little side project, isn't it?"
There was no need for him to answer.
She shook her head dubiously. "Alright, Harold. What do you want me to do?"
Wordlessly he rose to retrieve what he'd been working on so diligently over the past few weeks.
"And for the record you owe me overtime for working today," Shaw added. "Or have you forgotten what day it is today?"
~O~
The old dive bar he'd frequented in the last few days was nearly empty today. He sat in the far corner on a cheap wooden stool that creaked every time he moved, tumbler in hand. The only other patrons besides himself were a heavily muscled, balding man who had more tattoos than good sense and was slumped over at the opposite end of the bar, nearly passed out, and an elderly chap seated at one of the rotting wooden tables who appeared to be playing cards with himself.
It was safe to say that there would be no bar fights today—a thought that thoroughly disappointed him. He quite enjoyed pounding his fists into someone if the occasion called for it. The occasion usually being some punk making the mistake of assuming the unkempt, middle-aged homeless man would be easy prey.
Draining his glass he signaled to the barkeep for a refill.
Ringing out a dishcloth, the dark-skinned man sauntered over to him from behind the bar. "So what's your story?" he asked convivially as he unscrewed the whisky bottle and refilled his patron's glass. His only answer was a glare. "Hey, all I'm saying is, ain't nobody come here today unless they've got a story to tell. Don't you got no family? A woman for the night?" He slid the glass back over to his customer who was now glaring with eyes narrowed into slits. He held his hands up in surrender. "Chill, man. I get it. You don't want to talk. It's cool. But don't think you're fooling nobody. You've got a story to tell. It's written all over you." He proceeded to wipe down the counter, and if he were smart he would have known when to call it quits, but barkeeps weren't usually known for their wit. "You got a name at least?" he asked.
"No." The tone was deadly calm.
The barkeep gave a hearty laugh. "Everybody's got a name."
The glass slammed down on the bar, whisky slopping over the edges. "I. Don't."
His hands went up again. "Hey, man, I don't want no trouble. It's cool."
Another slap to the counter, this time with the required amount of coin to settle the tab. Then the door was rattling as it closed and the barkeep was left alone with his two remaining patrons.
~O~
Turning the collar of his jacket up to ward off the evening chill, he walked briskly up the dusk-illuminated street and away from the bar, still annoyed that his quiet evening of solitude had been foiled by a barkeeper who didn't know how to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps he could find another establishment to drink his fill. He could definitely use it now.
The street was lit with colorful lights and paraphernalia, the shops all locked up tight since the previous day. He made a sharp right at the corner, away from the bustle of downtown and into the shadier part of town. The last thing he wanted was to be part of today's festivities.
Deciding to call it an early night instead of risking drawing any more attention to himself, he cut through a darkened alleyway between a convenient shop and a tattoo parlor, heading for his current sleeping arrangement of choice.
Even the corrupt part of town seemed to be taking a vacation today, he noted. His surroundings were virtually deserted.
His current accommodations were located behind an automotive parts warehouse; the abandoned storage shed he'd found there offered decent enough shelter from the cold. It wasn't exactly first class as far as accommodations went, but he wasn't picky. Besides, he'd have to pick up and move on again soon. It wouldn't do for him to make any kind of acquaintances. He had long since learnt the consequences of letting someone get too close to him. He was a plague to anyone he touched.
No matter. He didn't want nor need anyone. Life was much simpler that way. To let someone in was to care. To care was to feel. And to feel was a sure way to meet your end. In the end, we were all alone.
It was fully dark by the time he reached his destination, but the back light of one of the neighboring factories provided ample light for him to see by—one of the reasons he'd chosen this location in the first place. The storage shed only offered protection overhead and on three sides since one wall had completely caved in, but it had sufficed for the time being. Perhaps he could afford a cheap motel next. He could find somewhere to offer his services temporarily before moving on again. His military background left him more than capable to do whatever odd job he could find.
Swiping his hat from his head and pushing his disheveled hair out of his eyes, he felt a few cold, wet flakes land on his forehead and cheeks.
Great. Snow. As if this day couldn't get any worse.
Shaking his head in abhorrence, he stepped over the fallen wooden beam and into his makeshift shelter.
And froze.
There, sitting purposefully atop his pile of tattered blankets, was a massive leather-bound book, artfully wrapped with a red ribbon. Tucked beneath the ribbon was a folded piece of paper, the tasteful, handwritten script more than familiar.
For those you did save, it read.
His body was suddenly abuzz with something he could not name, something neither pleasant nor unpleasant.
Hands that were not his own were slowly removing the ribbon and turning each page.
Names— name after name. Photos— face after face. Male, female, young, old...
And numbers.
Nine-digit numbers.
831736218 - Marianna L. Collins. 16. Daughter. Sister. Friend. Enrolled in College next year.
825726736 - Frank R. Clayton. 62. Husband. Father. Proud new grandfather 10. 30. 2013
503027479 - Joellen N. Ayala. 30. Recently certified physician 11. 01. 2013.
408213258 - Caio F. Pereira. 68. Husband. Friend.
933929207 - Gloria C. Faulkner. 28. Wife. Sister. Mother-to-be.
637342738 - Ines Kaufmann. 24. Son. Bother. Kidney donor 08. 04. 2012.
190800833 - Mai H. Trang. 32. Daughter. Married 08. 10. 2013.
426757560 - Michael K. Fields. 85. Father. Grandfather. Great-Grandfather.
932307803 - Linda C. Russo. 8. Daughter. Big sister to be.
540018973 - Antoni F. Czerwinski. 43. Lawyer. Husband. Son.
873639747 - Liesel M. Sinclair. 1. Celebrated her first birthday 11. 20. 2013.
519196947 - Paul S. Dutra. 50. Husband. Father. Friend.
The list went on and on… and on. Family. Friends. Recent achievements. Ambitions. Future prospects. Dates of significance. Photos. Photo after photo. Smiling up at him. Numerous lives. Hundreds of lives.
Lives he'd saved.
The hands holding the book were shaking now. A wet droplet landed on one of the pages. A few pages later, another drop—someone's tears. It wasn't until the small, white card slipped out from within the pages that he realized they were his.
Written on the card in the same elegant, handwritten script were three simple words:
Merry Christmas, Mr. Reese.