Good Night, Mr. Reese by Badgergater
Episode tag, Season 4, Terra Incognita bridging to the start of Asylum
Summary: Once again, someone really does come for John Reese.
Author's Note: Thanks to Scully for the beta, and, as always, to Corine for recruiting me to POI
Lionel Fusco wondered what the hell he was doing out here in the sticks, in the dark- on what had to be the coldest night in the last decade- on the thinnest of threads. After all, it was only a hunch that had brought him to the Catskills- hours from the city- on the hope that maybe, just maybe, his pseudo partner was actually somewhere in this godforsaken wilderness. "You owe me big time for this, Wonder Boy," he muttered to himself as he drove, following his GPS and hoping it was still functioning out here in the boonies. Actually, if he thought about it, ol' Wonder Boy owed him a whole bunch… he'd saved Detective Riley's bacon more than once. "Detective Riley, my ass," he mused aloud. "He's a troublemaking vigilante mercenary maverick nutcase whacko…"
The GPS quit right about the time he turned off the township road onto a driveway that he hoped led to Patterson's cabin. Most of the turnoffs he'd passed were snow covered- it was a positive sign that on this one there were tire tracks.
Fusco drove slowly toward the dark blot that was the large cabin. Stopping, he cut the lights on his car and shut off the engine, listening for a moment before he cautiously exited the vehicle with his gun in hand.
Out in the open it was bitterly, brutally cold. The cabin was pitch dark, everything still and quiet as death. The eerie scene, though lit only by moonlight reflecting off the snow, was nearly bright as day. It reminded him of the line from the old Christmas poem he used to read to Lee, Lionel thought suddenly, the line something about the moon on the fresh fallen snow casting a luster of midday-The Night Before Christmas, that was it.
But this was no merry Christmas tale, no happy story fit for children.
Fusco's heart raced, thumping loudly in his chest as he approached the dark shape lying in the snow and realized it was a dead body.
Another body was slumped behind the wheel of the dark blue Chevy with the shattered driver's side window.
Lionel sidled past the passenger side of the car and went first to check the man on his back in the snow. Bending down, the detective's searching fingers reached past the collar, touched the throat and found the body ice cold. Dead, likely for hours. The face was, thankfully, unfamiliar.
Nothing to do for this one but call the morgue.
Turning away, gun held in front of him in hands already stiff with cold, Fusco cautiously approached the driver's side of the car.
One look told him what he didn't want to know- this was a face he did recognize. "Oh, damn." It couldn't be, the guy couldn't be… Mr. Invincible wasn't so invincible after all. But as Fusco moved closer it was clear, there was no doubt. It was John, the bane of his existence, the most annoying partner in the history of police work. Slumped over. Unmoving. Lionel sagged; he was too late.
The Man in the Suit was dead.
And then the dead man opened his eyes.
Fusco instinctively leaped backward, stumbling into the snow bank with a curse, eyes wide and gun raised. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax and lower his weapon. "Holy crap, Wonder Boy. Isn't it kinda cold to be sleeping in the car?" he asked, stepping up to the vehicle.
Lionel saw immediately that something was wrong, terribly wrong. Even in the eerie light, Reese's face looked ghastly- his skin almost blue, his eyes unfocused, his mouth moving but emitting no sounds.
Fusco yanked the car door open. Reese began to slide out, and Fusco suddenly found his arms full of a barely conscious Man in the Suit. He pushed John back inside the vehicle.
Reese blinked, ever so slowly, as if gathering himself. Weakly he mumbled, "Fusco?"
"Yeah. Your partner's come to your rescue." If John would just once would tell him what he was up to, like a normal partner should, it would make his life so much easier. Then again, normal was not a word to be applied to Reese or his cohorts.
"How'd you find me?" The Man in the Suit mumbled.
"I'm a detective, so I detected. Besides, Glasses was worried about you." This was bad. Reese's face looked wet, like he'd been…crying?
"'Sss cold."
"Yes, it is." Ah, the man's eyes were likely watering.
Reese's crooked semblance of a smile was macabre. "She was wrong."
"Wrong?"
"She said no one was coming."
"She?" Fusco hastily looked around, eyes searching the silent woods for another human, friend or foe, but seeing nothing. "Someone else is here?"
"Didn't you see her?"
Fusco swiveled his head around, didn't see anyone. "See who?"
Reese smiled. Not the smug, taunting grin Lionel had seen so all too often, but something- well, it hardly fit The Man in the Suit- but almost wistful. And shockingly genuine.
"She's here."
"Who's here?"
"Carter."
"Carter? Detective Carter?"
"Joss. She was here." The wounded man insisted.
"Sure. Seven years ago, when she was working this case."
"T'night."
"I don't think so, Starsky." This was worse than he thought- his partner was delirious. Hallucinating.
"She's here." Reese's voice was so low as to be nearly inaudible. "She kept me alive."
Lionel shook his head. "There's no one here but you and the dead guy." Trying to get Reese to focus on reality, he asked, "You shoot him?"
Reese sort of nodded even as his eyes drifted closed and Fusco took it as a yes.
John forced his eyes open again, looking around. "Carter back yet?"
"No. She's not here," Lionel answered softly, deciding he'd just have to ignore the wounded man's nonsensical ramblings. He pulled open Reese's coat, finding the source of the blood stain saturating the white shirt. It looked like someone had poured a gallon of ketchup down the man's shoulder and over the front of his shirt. "You know, as often as you get shot, you really ought to wear red. The blood would blend in better."
It was as if Reese didn't hear him.
"She… was… here. Right..." John waved a bloodied hand weakly toward the car's passenger seat…"sitting there."
"She wasn't here tonight, big guy." If Reese wasn't freezing to death, he was bleeding to death, Fusco figured. He softened his tone. "We haven't seen her for over a year, partner. You know that."
"Find her." Reese implored.
"She's not here, Mr. Tall Dark and Delirious. You've been working her cold case. Imagining her."
Reese shook his head. "Carter… was here. Helping me…"
Deciding his best option was to change tactics and simply accept Reese's delusions, Lionel agreed, "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. But right now you've got to help me get you over to my car. Warm you up and get you patched up…"
"Not going… without her."
"Well, she's not here to help at the moment, it's just you and me, so come on. Maybe she's over in my car. It's warmer in there." Fusco opened the door wider and pulled The Man in the Suit out of the vehicle.
John tried to help, groaning softly as his feet tangled, his ineffective attempt at walking nearly tripping them both.
"Okay, okay, don't help. Just don't make it harder, huh?" Fusco half dragged, half carried his partner the twenty feet to his own car, propped the big guy against the vehicle's fender while he opened the door, and John fell onto the seat with a gasp of pain. Lionel slammed the door shut before hurrying around to the driver's side and quickly cranked the engine, turning the heater on full blast. Then he reached over and popped the trunk latch. Exiting the car he hurried around to the back and pulled out a duffle bag. Moving back to the passenger door, Lionel opened it and began rummaging through the bag's contents.
With an effort Reese raised weighty eyelids to watch what his NYPD partner was doing.
"First aid kit, supersized version." Fusco explained, pulling out several thick bandages. "Started carrying this when I got partnered with you. Knew it would come in handy." There was a ragged exit wound on Reese's shoulder, just under the collarbone, bleeding sluggishly. The frigid temperatures had nearly killed The Man in the Suit but had also saved him, Lionel realized, knowing that the cold slowed blood loss. "Not much I can do here, big guy. You need a doctor to work on this." He took Reese's left hand and placed it over the bandage on his shoulder. "Here. Keep pressure on it, that'll slow the bleeding some because when you warm up, the blood's gonna start pumping again."
Reese looked up at him with bleary eyes. "Thanks."
Lionel paused, surprised. "You, thanking me? You're in worse shape than I thought." Hurrying back around the car, the detective climbed behind the wheel and began to back the car around in a y-turn.
Reese suddenly tensed, straightened up, and grabbed at Fusco's arm. "No!"
Fusco threw him a frustrated look. "What now? More ghosts?"
"Inside… needs help…"
"Look, buddy, Carter's not here. Or in there."
A pained look crossed John's face. "Not Carter. Patterson."
"Chase Patterson? In the cabin? He dead, too?"
"Maybe not. Yet. His brother drugged him."
"His brother?" Fusco knew that, of the entire family, only Chase had survived that murderous night seven years ago. "You're confused again, partner. Patterson's whole family is dead."
Reese managed a head shake. "Check. Chase's inside… took pills. Pump his stomach."
"For real this time? I ain't goin' back out in the cold looking for a ghost."
Reese blinked, nodded. "Real."
Lionel threw an assessing look at the wounded man and decided to humor his partner; it was unlikely John would bleed to death in the few minutes Fusco would need to check if this was fact or another delusion. He slammed the car into park and climbed out, pulling his collar up against the cold. The sun was climbing above the horizon but not yet providing any warmth- if anything it seemed colder, Lionel thought, shivering.
He tried to move silently but the sound of his boots crunching in the snow seemed incredibly loud in the stillness. Reaching the cabin, the detective paused and pulled his gun before stepping carefully up onto the porch. Fusco took a deep breath, jerked the door open, and slid quickly inside.
His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the shadows that lingered inside the building, but there was just enough light from the large front window to lessen the darkness. His glance raked across the room and paused at the couch. A body- Chase Patterson, curled into the fetal position, seemingly asleep. Or maybe dead. There was an open bottle of pills spilled across the top of the coffee table.
Fusco took a step closer, slipped on liquid, then looked down to see his foot in the midst of a dark stain. "Aw, shit," he muttered as the coppery smell assailed his nostrils. Blood. It had to be Reese's, he realized, wiping his shoe on the rug before proceeding.
Gun in one hand, Lionel stopped beside the sofa, reached tentatively forward, and tapped Chase's shoulder. Warm. Alive. He was close enough now to see the man's chest rising and falling slowly as he took long, slow breaths. Fusco shook him once, then again, harder.
Chase slowly opened sleepy eyes. "G'way."
Lionel shook him again. "Get up."
"Who r'you?" Patterson was slurring his words.
"Detective Fusco, NYPD."
"'Nother cop? Where's…" he waved a hand vaguely, slumping back. "Where's t'other? Th' big guy?"
"He's out in the car. Waiting. Needs to get to the hospital as much as you do. Let's go, pal." Fusco grabbed Patterson by the shoulder, pulled him to his feet and shepherded him out to the vehicle- Chase stumbling awkwardly like a sleepwalker. The detective pushed him into the back seat, hurried to the front, and slid behind the wheel once again, sparing a glance at Reese. John was slumped against the car's far door, nearly as pale as the snowbank outside but- to Fusco's relief- still breathing.
Lionel shifted the car into reverse and when it lurched into motion, John's eyes snapped opened.
"Carter?"
"Sorry to disappoint you, Ghost Hunter, it's just me. Your real partner."
"You… scared her away."
"Now I know you're completely out of your mind, Wonder Boy. I could never scare her, even on my worst day."
"She's never scared… of anything."
The odd, disconnected tone of Reese's voice worried Lionel. "No, she wasn't even scared of you, Master of Mayhem that you are."
"I…never hurt her."
"Well, that's a matter for debate. Which we'll do sometime when you're lucid."
Fusco drove back down the driveway then and out onto the township road, listening to the labored breathing of the two passengers in his car, both of whom might be dying. He steered the car with one hand, holding his phone in the other, praying for a signal as he maneuvered between the snow banks. No signal, no signal, no signal and then he was at the junction with the main road and the device suddenly lit up.
Fusco smiled as he dialed nine-one-one. "This is detective Lionel Fusco of the NYPD. I've got a wounded officer, and another man who's overdosed. Both need immediate medical attention. I need an ambulance to meet me." He gave them the name of the road and his approximate location.
Lionel's second call was to an unlisted number in NYC. "Glasses. I've got our mutual friend. There's another hole in his suit, but he's alive."
He heard Harold's relieved sigh. "Thank you, Detective."
"Wow, thanked twice in one night. That's a new record."
Fusco hung up and realized Reese was still mumbling deliriously.
"I miss her."
"You talking about Carter again?"
Reese nodded. "Miss her."
"Me too," the detective admitted.
"I should have told her…" the whispery voice faded away and stopped.
"Told her what?" Lionel prompted, curious.
"Things. What she meant... to… people."
"Yeah, you should have. It would have mattered to her."
"Meant to."
Fusco snorted. "Sure. 'Cuz you're the talkative type. Mushy even. A regular Shakespeare, reciting love poems. Next thing you'll be singing 'Happy'."
"She cared... 'bout me…"
Lionel shook his head. This was certainly a side of Mr. Sunshine that he'd never seen before. "Carter cared about a lot of people. Even people who didn't deserve it."
"Like me."
Fusco sighed. "Like both of us, partner."
"You're not so bad, Lionel. When you're not trying to kill me."
"That was a long time ago."
"Hard t'forget.
"True."
The car was warm now and the warmth seemed to be helping Reese focus. John raised his head again, looking around, his eyes less cloudy. "Carter was here. Talking to me. But she left. Left just before you drove up." There was genuine sadness in his quiet tone. "We had a nice talk. About things. Real things."
Fusco nodded. Contradicting a hallucinating man who was seeing ghosts was futility defined. "Uh huh. Sure. Whatever you say, Kemosabe."
It took them twenty minutes to reach the intersection with the state highway where they met the ambulance. As the paramedics loaded him into the vehicle, Reese was still mumbling about his ghostly visitor.
PART TWO
Lionel took charge. He dealt with the local cops, explained the circumstances of the incident, declared it all related to a hush-hush NYPD undercover investigation, and promised that he'd personally take care of all the paperwork- the lies rolling off his tongue like water over a dam. By the time he got everything squared away, Reese was in surgery. Fusco had nothing to do but wait, so he went in search of the ER doctor who'd initially treated The Man in the Suit.
"How's Detective Riley?" Lionel asked when he finally tracked down the young physician.
"Lucky. Unless there are any unexpected complications he should recover nicely," the ER doc told him. "He lost a significant amount of blood but as soon as we started transfusing him his blood pressure began to recover. His x-rays looked good- no broken bones, no bullet fragments. And the bullet missed the vital organs." The doctor shook his head. "The near hypothermia helped to some extent in slowing the blood loss, and to top it off he fortunately doesn't appear to have any frostbite, either."
"Yeah, Riley certainly is one lucky son of a gun." Fusco hoped the doctor didn't catch the sarcasm in his tone.
The physician nodded. "I saw the scars…" He let the words hang, forming a question.
"Ex-military. Special forces, multiple tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. You know the story."
The medical man nodded. "And the more recent ones? In the bicep, and his other shoulder, that wound couldn't have been more than a month or two ago…."
"Undercover work is dangerous," Fusco deadpanned.
The doctor nodded, accepting the explanation. "He kept mumbling about someone named Carter talking to him, helping him survive. Was that the man whose stomach we pumped?"
"Ah no. Carter… was a cop. An old friend."
POI - POI - POI - POI - POI - POI
Fusco was dozing in a bedside chair when, sometime around noon, Reese woke. He looked like hell warmed over, but once again he was, amazingly, still among the living. The man had nine lives, Lionel decided, but how many remained was the real question. "You know, if Glasses can't afford to buy you a vest now that he's not a billionaire anymore, I think I could take up a collection in the squad room and get you one. One with special shoulder guards."
"I appreciate the thought, Lionel. Nice of you."
The tone sounded surprisingly sincere, Fusco was shocked to realize. Then again, the big guy was hooked up to an IV that was undoubtedly full of some kind of happy juice. "That's because I'm a nice guy."
There was a long moment of awkward silence before Lionel suddenly remembered. "Hey, I've got something of yours I think you might want." He dug around in his coat pocket, found the small item, and stepped up to the side of the bed to hand it to John.
It was the picture Fusco had found clutched in Reese's hand in the ice cold car, the one John had found among Carter's things- that of a much younger Reese in a tropical setting wearing an Army uniform, seated at a table with a beautiful blonde woman, both of them smiling.
Fusco had studied the photo during the long hours of waiting at Reese's bedside, trying to understand. How had that man in the photo, the military man with the open smile, turned into the cynical, manipulative, coldblooded John Reese?
Reese took the picture and stared silently at it, one long finger brushing across the smooth surface, his eyes soft and dark as he studied it. Finally, in a raw whisper so low Lionel had to strain to hear it, John said, "Her name was Jessica."
The big man didn't have to say more for Fusco to see that she had been someone very special to him. "Guess we all have our secrets, huh."
"Some of us more than others."
"Ain't that the truth, partner."
Reese was still staring at the photo.
"Sorry about the stain on it. That's how I found it."
Reese seemed mesmerized by the bright, cheerful picture. "So much blood…"
"It's not so bad, really, just a little there on the corner…" and then Fusco stopped, realizing it wasn't the blood on the photo Reese was referring to.
"You can't wash it off your hands. Once it's there, there's no going back." There was a genuine sadness in the ex-agent's voice.
"There's never any going back, partner. There's only going forward."
John clutched the photo in his hands, closing his eyes and giving in, silently letting the pain and exhaustion wash over him.
Lionel wasn't sure why but in that moment he sort of, almost, kind of, felt sorry for the bane of his existence. "I won't tell anyone, you know, not Coco Puffs, not even Glasses…"
Reese opened his eyes, staring up at his partner. "He knows about…" John nodded toward the photo.
"I meant about Carter, the way you were delusional and rambling on about seeing her and how much she meant to y…"
The wounded man let his eyes fall shut once more and his voice was barely audible. "That's okay, Lionel. I meant it all."
Lionel Fusco, shaking his head in confusion, turned then and left the room.
Part THREE
Reese slept for several hours, aided by something the doctor had put into his IV which left him feeling particularly mellow. When he finally woke, Fusco was gone, replaced by a very worried looking Finch.
"John." There was obvious concern in the computer genius's voice.
"Harold." Reese took a moment to assess his situation. From the angle of the sun on the snow outside the window, it appeared to be late afternoon. Whatever sedative had been in his IV had finally worn off, leaving him only slightly fuzzy- but thankfully the painkillers were still working full force. He couldn't say that he felt good, but he'd certainly felt worse. "Why are you here?"
"A friend can't stop by to visit a friend in the hospital?"
John looked suspiciously at Harold, shaking his head. "This isn't just a drop in visit. You're not the dropping in on a sick friend type."
Finch dropped the pretense. "I thought you might appreciate a ride back to the city."
"I can drive."
Harold raised a questioning eyebrow. "Perhaps. But since your car has a shattered window, it would be a rather chilly trip. And regardless, it has been impounded as evidence by the local police."
Reese was still fighting past the drugs lingering in his system. So if Harold had driven up to give him a ride home, then, "I've been released?"
"Not hardly, Mr. Reese. The doctors would prefer that you stay another 48 hours minimum." Harold sighed. "I agree that you would benefit from remaining here and recuperating. But I assumed you would, as usual, take matters into your own hands and depart. Against medical advice."
John managed a hollow grin. After the years they had worked together, Harold did indeed know him quite well. The former CIA agent was not a man to lie abed when there was work to be done. And although Harold didn't say it, his expression exuded worry.
Things couldn't be going well back in New York City.
POI - POI - POI – POI - POI - POI
John, having succeeded in donning trousers and a clean shirt provided by Finch, was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was working his feet into his shoes when a nearly apoplectic nurse came bustling into the room, spluttering.
"You've unhooked your IV!" she noted with alarm, stating the obvious. "Just what is it you think you are doing, Mr. Riley?" she demanded.
"It's Detective Riley. And it's obvious what I'm doing. Leaving."
"You are not cleared to leave this bed, much less this hospital," the nurse insisted.
Reese glared at her. Maybe because he was pale- his usually obsessively neat hair askew, his jaw dark with stubble- and he stood with a slight but clearly perceptible list to the left, that the stare which could normally melt steel failed to even slightly intimidate one stout, middle-aged nurse.
"Get back into that bed, Detective."
John stubbornly shook his head no. "I need to get back to the city."
"And what does the city have that we don't have here?"
"My own bed."
It was her turn to glare at him. "And you'll go there? And rest?" Her tone was disbelieving.
"Yes."
"Mr. Ree- Riley will rest, Ms…" Harold interjected, hoping to avoid a scene, and hastily read her nametag, "…Ms. Holland. I promise. I will drive him directly to his apartment, and I will see to it that he takes proper care of himself." Harold threw John a pointed 'don't contradict me' look.
"Leaving against medical advice is not a good idea," she huffed, looking from one to the other of them.
"Oh, I quite agree, Ms. Holland. But believe me, Detective Riley is quite capable of looking after himself," Harold assured her. "And if he should encounter any further…difficulties…Manhattan has a large number of excellent physicians and numerous more-than-adequate medical facilities. Which we will not hesitate to make use of," Finch promised. Between his own serious physical afflictions and Mr. Reese's propensity to get in the way of bullets, Harold had become far too well acquainted with NYC's medical providers over the past several years.
John tried to look fit and competent, but it was taking all of his concentration- and a great deal of his energy- simply to remain upright. Only Harold's helping hand kept him from falling over as he reached back to put on his overcoat, straining his injured shoulder.
"I can't talk you out of this?" the nurse asked, her keen eyes noting her patient's unsteady posture.
"No."
She turned to Finch. "You won't stop him?"
"The detective is a rather determined man," Harold understated.
She looked from one to the other, then shook her head and sighed in exasperation "Well, if you insist on foolishly risking your health," Ms. Holland cast Reese one last hopeful glance but he remained stone faced, "then I'll get the forms you need to sign." With a shake of her head, the nurse left the room, mumbling about "men…fools…idiots… hero complexes…"
As soon as she was gone John sat back down on the bed, resting his shaking legs and conserving his energy.
"Perhaps you really should remain here, you do look…something less than one hundred percent," Harold suggested, noting Reese's clearly apparent exhaustion. "I know it was a difficult evening. Detective Fusco related your experiences from last night. In great detail."
John frowned. "He said he wouldn't tell…"
"It's rather difficult to hide a gunshot wound. Even for you."
Reese remained silent for a beat, then asked quietly. "He didn't mention anyone else being there, at the cabin?"
It seemed an odd question, Harold thought. "Just Mr. Patterson and his previously unknown and murderous brother."
John's look of relief left Finch puzzled. "Is there something else you should be telling me, Mr. Reese?"
"No."
But the ex-agent looked incredibly pale and, Finch thought, rather nonplussed. "Really, Mr. Reese, are you sure you ought to be doing this?"
"I'm not sure I ought to be doing anything I do, Harold," John said sadly.
Finch was going to inquire further about Reese's unusual statement but just then Nurse Holland returned with a stack of papers- 'declining further medical care' forms along with 'waiving doctor's orders' forms plus 'departing against Medical Advice' forms, all in triplicate, all requiring Reese's signature. By the time he was done scrawling his 'John Riley' on every one of them, an orderly had arrived with a wheelchair. To Finch's surprise Reese sat down in it and allowed himself to be wheeled outside to Harold's waiting car.
Once the wounded man was settled in the passenger seat as comfortably as circumstances allowed, Harold hurried around the car, climbed into the driver's side, started the vehicle and pulled away. They rode in companionable silence for nearly an hour, Harold thinking The Man in the Suit was asleep, until John suddenly spoke up.
"I was hoping we wouldn't have to do this again," he said quietly.
"Mr. Reese?"
"You driving, me…" John waved a hand, "bleeding all over your car."
"Yes, we do seem to reenact this scenario entirely too often. Although fortunately you are not, at this moment at least, in danger of bleeding out in my car." Not like in the parking garage. Or after Carter's death- twice. Or most recently, fleeing the gun battle beneath the stock market.
John nodded, then turned to look at the dapper computer expert, smiling softly. "I haven't said it in a long time. Thank you for giving me a purpose."
Harold, surprised, glanced over at his passenger. "I provided you with a job. You made it something more."
"It's always been much more than just a job. It's been too long since I've told you that I appreciate the opportunity to work for you." John's tone was sad, his face unusually pensive.
"Well, to be precise, Mr. Reese, you don't actually work for me anymore. These days you are an employee of the NYPD."
"If we're sticking strictly to the facts, Harold, I don't actually work for them. I'm still your employee, working the numbers. It's…my life. What I do."
Harold was silent a moment- contemplating the dark situation they were currently in- with Ms. Shaw missing and possibly deceased, with Samaritan seemingly closing in on them, closer and closer with every passing day like a noose drawing tight. "Perhaps now might be a good time for me to apologize for luring you into my rather bizarre… and dangerous… experiment."
Was that soft rumble John laughing? Harold wondered with amazement.
"I seem to remember that you warned me about the likely consequences of taking you up on that job offer, but I accepted willingly. And knowingly." John shifted on the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position, one that put less strain on his damaged shoulder. Finally settling, he added softly, "It's been interesting and rewarding work. I've met memorable people. Made friends." He smiled crookedly. "I have no regrets, Harold."
"Even though it appears more and more likely that I was correct in my assumption?"
"That we'd end up actually dead? That's where we all end up, Harold. No one escapes death. At best we can only do our best to postpone the inevitable."
"You seem quite…philosophical… today, Mr. Reese."
"New day, new man." John looked out the car window at the barren winter countryside. "I had a lot of time to think, sitting in that car last night, in the cold." Reese shivered. "Alone."
Something odd about the way John said the last word caught Harold's attention, but The Man in the Suit didn't clarify his choice of words. Instead, he silently looked out the car window until, eyes sliding closed, head nodding, he dozed for the remainder of the long ride back to the city.
POI - POI – POI - POI - POI - POI
Quite sure that John Reese did not have the energy to trudge up the three flights of stairs to his walk-up apartment, Finch instead drove John to the safe house. Reese didn't complain about the change in destination, he simply levered himself out of the car and walked slowly up to the building and into the extravagant apartment, the one luxury remaining from their days before being forced underground by Samaritan.
John walked through the living room and proceeded straight to one of the bedrooms where he took a seat on the edge of the bed. Harold began to fuss immediately, dispensing pills from the bottles the hospital had insisted on sending along and bringing a bottle of water from the apartment's well-stocked refrigerator. "Keeping hydrated while recuperating is important, Mr. Reese. As is taking the complete course of antibiotics prescribed to prevent your wound from becoming infected."
"I know, Finch," John agreed wearily.
"Yes. I'm sure you do." Harold watched intently while John took the pills Finch gave to him, washed them down with half the bottle of water, and then reclined carefully on top of the duvet.
"Give me a couple hours to nap and I'll be ready to go," he mumbled.
Harold was smiling. "I doubt that, Mr. Reese."
Something about the smug look on Finch's face suddenly hit John, who sat up quickly, shaking his head which felt quite unusually heavy. And very unnaturally fuzzy. "Finch…" he began warningly. "Those weren't antibiotics, were they?"
"Not all of them, no. I'm afraid I've done something quite unethical, Mr. Reese. I drugged you. For your own good. With the collusion of Nurse Holland, who was quite worried about your premature departure from the hospital. I expect you're feeling quite drowsy by now. She assured me that after ingesting the medication you will sleep deeply for quite some time, tomorrow morning at least. Perhaps after your rest you will be fit to return to work."
"Harold…" John tried to sound menacing and failed, slumping back on the bed, his eyes closing despite his best efforts to keep them open. With a deep sigh, he suddenly relaxed.
"I am sorry for deceiving you, John. But I'm not sorry for ensuring that you will, at least tonight, get adequate rest." Harold retrieved a blanket from the closet and gently covered the wounded man, already soundly asleep. "Good night, Mr. Reese."
POI - POI - POI - The End – POI - POI - POI
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