Chapter 01

John would probably say something witty and inappropriate for the situation at hand. Maybe: "Third time's a charm, Harold" in his softly spoken drawl. Harold was only hopeful that the third time he was sitting in a plastic chair near John's hospital bed wouldn't have catastrophic results. This time they had both ended up in a hospital.

John was unconscious for three days with a severe concussion and one broken rib.

Harold underwent a complicated surgery with his left hand - his middle finger was broken, his ring and little finger shattered and most of the nerves in the hand irreparably damaged. Doctors predicted he would never regain use in his last two fingers no matter the amount of physical therapy. The only unharmed person in their small group of survivors remained Ms. Shaw.

Sameen steadily watched over them all. She moved from room to room including the one Detective Fusco had been occupying after his surgery. Harold wasn't privy to the details yet, but Sameen hinted Lionel was hurt during their final battle with Samaritan and his operatives. Sameen made frequent visits going from one room to the other. After Harold was on his feet he spent most of his time in John's room.

When John had first woken up the room was empty. Ms. Shaw was with Detective Fusco, who needed help standing up from a hospital bed. Harold had been wheeled to radiology for a set of x-rays.

They heard about what had happened earlier when they had all gathered around John's bed. He was asleep and in restraints. John must have been in terrible pain and obviously confused, because in his state he had attacked a nurse. She called for assistance from a doctor and then with the help of two orderlies John was administered painkillers and a mild dose of sedatives. Harold wasn't happy with that.

"We should take turns," Lionel decided once they stood over John's bed.

"No need, Detective. I won't leave his side." Harold watched Ms. Shaw as she pulled a plastic chair to John's bed. "Thank you, Sameen."

Harold sat down with a wince. He still needed to get rid of John's restraints, but in his current state he was unable to accomplish the procedure himself. "Would you free him, please?"

"You think it's a good idea?" Detective Fusco questioned him nervously.

"I'm sure you wouldn't be happy yourself if the first thing you noticed was that you were unable to defend yourself, Detective," Harold reasoned with him calmly.

After four hours of sitting idly by John's side his vitals started to pick up and a nurse rushed into the room. "He's waking up. You shouldn't have freed him." She checked John's vitals and started to take his hand.

Harold ignored her tone and waited for John to open his eyes. "He's a former soldier. He completed several combat tours. The restraints are the last thing he needs."

The nurse looked at him nervously and then yelled in fright when her wrist was captured in John's tight grip.

"John?" Harold stood up with a pained expression. "John, would you be so kind and release the nurse who is currently trying to assess your vitals? You're in a hospital. You're safe. There is no need for violence."

A heartbeat later John's eyes fluttered open, scanning his surroundings. His eyes landed on the poor woman, then he released her.

Harold didn't falter at all. "Please, would you inform the others to not touch your patient without his previous consent?"

"I will spread the word," she assured him and then went away.

"Are you alright, John?" Harold asked holding his breath. He just knew the answer to his question was not going to be what he wanted to hear when their eyes met. John Reese had looked at him with distrust the first time they met when they didn't know each other at all. Harold remembered that weary, almost hostile expression. Once upon a time Harold felt a small victory when John's distrust graduated to amusement and subtle inquiries.

"Who are you?" John asked flatly.

Harold was prepared for that alternative. John's doctor informed them they could expect almost anything, but it still hit Harold hard that the worst had happened. He sunk down heavily onto a chair and winced with pain again. His hip protested the movement.

Harold carefully placed his injured hand on his thigh. The mentioned limb throbbed in pain as if it too wanted to remind him life was just plain painful sometime. Harold wanted to succumb to his misery. They went after an all-knowing God the government released on the world and subsequently let it actively hunt them. They lost several people to the conflict and he just refused to fight anymore. Yet as for this? Would it be anyone else, Harold would probably accept the situation and let the person go start a new life, but not with John. He refused to surrender this battle, to give up on John.

Harold's back straightened and he steadily held John's eyes. "My name-" he paused for a moment. What was he supposed to say? They were in a hospital under their aliases. If Harold hoped some sliver of information would help John regain his memories, their fabricated names wouldn't help John at all.

Harold watched the unreadable feature of John's face as it changed into a scowl. Why would John scowl at him in the few moments Harold had paused to think? That look was there only when John disagreed with him. Maybe it wasn't only disagreement. John was using that expression now as a gesture of impatience. Harold didn't answer fast enough for John's liking.

Even at the beginning of their relationship John would never press his questions. But now, John was waiting him out, probably calculating every expression on Harold's face. He waited for Harold's hesitancy and then he would try to guess his weakness. Even without memories John remained the same person.

"Sorry," Harold amended quickly, covering any amusement on his part. No matter the circumstances Harold could always rely on John's CIA training. He cleared his throat. "My name is Harold Swan. We are coworkers."

Harold stated the name he rarely used. If John needed some prompt for his memory, that wouldn't help him. Harold Swan was only an imaginary person. Just as much as John Rooney.

John tilted his head, but didn't say a word.

This situation discomfited Harold even more. God, he didn't want to go back to their beginnings. "May I ask you what is it the last thing you remember, John?" Harold made a conscious effort to not show his nervousness.

"Nothing." John answered flatly.

Harold blinked a few times. "At all? Name? Occupation? Hobbies? Friends?" John appeared to be searching his memory for anything. Harold could see the effort it took for him to try. It must have hurt too. John didn't want to show weakness, but his features were too hardened and too blank. John's head must have been pounding in great pain. Harold believed that John couldn't remember.

John shook his head not understanding his predicament. He fixed his eyes to Harold's and then asked the most important question. "What happened to me?"

Harold was floored. This level of trust surprised him. Maybe on some subconscious level John still saw him as a friend. In their circumstances it would make more sense for John to wait on a doctor then asked a complete stranger.

Harold hesitated. He didn't know what to reveal to John in his current condition, but at the same time Harold knew he needed to establish some level of familiarity to let John know he wasn't lying. "Unfortunately we were trapped under a collapsed building."

It wasn't Harold's place to inform him how they ended up under said building, but he couldn't stay quiet either, so he explained some more, "You sustained some superficial injuries, but the real problem was a blow to your head from a piece of concrete."

Harold could remember to the smallest detail when the building around them collapsed.

John's body resting on him, shielding him. Harold's hand went to John's head, because it occurred to him if John was covering him, nothing was covering John and the brain was the most important organ. After the debris finished falling the world went dark and quiet. They both were still alive. Harold could feel John's breathing. For just a moment he entertained the thought that maybe they both would survive it. Ms. Shaw certainly knew where they were. Harold was sure she would move heaven and earth to find them.

"Are you alright, Harold?" John whispered softly.

"Yes. You?"

"It's a bit too crowded for my taste, but if I have to stay this close to someone, I can live with the knowledge it's you."

Harold smiled, because he could hear the amusement in John's voice. He prepared himself for hours and hours of easy conversation. John would make sure they both got out with their sanity intact. No matter how soft and fascinating Harold found out John's hairs were. Only the silence surrounding them was ominous and short-lived. It was quickly replaced by the sudden shifting of concrete above them and a thunderous rumble. The next second Harold's hand was screaming with a pain so intense he blacked out.

John cleared his throat.

Harold blinked in confusion. "Forgive me." Where was he? His own heart rate had spiked upwards. It was such an intense memory that it started a new level of sympathetic pain in his fingers. Harold should most definitely focus on explaining John's condition.

"You were unconscious for three days. Your doctor's diagnosis is a severe concussion. I am not a doctor, but my guess would be amnesia as well." The split second decision of putting his hand on John's head had saved John's life. If the force of the falling concrete hadn't been deflected by going through Harold's bones first, John's head would have been crushed in.

Precisely in that second the doors opened and John's doctor walked into the room. "Mr. Rooney, I heard you are finally back with us. How do you feel?"

Harold heaved himself up with his good arm and slowly shuffled from the room. It wasn't polite to stay when John would have his chat with a doctor. Harold was practically a stranger for him. He didn't want to impose. John needed to know he had his privacy. Harold would always respect his personal space.

Harold settled down on a bench in the hospital corridor and waited for the doctor to finish speaking with John. He didn't have to wait long. Once the man noticed him, he automatically went and sat beside Harold. They both watched a nurse making his way toward John's room.

"I understand you are a friend of Doctor Tillman." The doctor said softly after a minute.

"Yes. John as well." Harold replied stiffly.

"I wouldn't usually do this, but Megan told me he doesn't have a family. You three are all the people he has left."

"Yes. And unfortunately none of us are stated in his medical records as his next of kin." But that was precisely why the doctor was speaking to Harold. He shouldn't discuss John's physical condition with anyone else. "I don't need to be a medical professional to know he has a retrograde amnesia," Harold added before allowing the doctor to continue.

"Wrong," the doctor corrected him kindly with a small smile. "Retrograde amnesia is usually triggered by a trauma situation. The patient is able to recollect his memories before the said trauma occurred. He doesn't remember anything before that building."

Harold's eyes stayed at the door of John's room. They had been victorious over Samaritan. They had done enough. They deserved to have at least a bit of peace.

The doctor continued without any pause. "On a good note, he was able to hold onto his common knowledge about the world in general. That's a good thing. It means his memory is still partly functional. I would be more concerned if he couldn't, for example, dress himself. He can't tell you who's president right now or what year it is, but he knows the basic things like: if you put food in front of him he knows it requires using cutlery."

Harold's stomach tightened in anxiety. "Will he recover?"

"I don't know yet. His brain was swollen for three days from his injury. There is a fair chance his condition might only be temporary and the swelling is causing the amnesia. I need to get him to MRI. We need to determinate if his brain was permanently damaged or not. He would have a very good chance if his brain is only swollen with no ill effects later on. Head injuries are always tricky and very dangerous. Once the swelling is gone, he could regain his memories in a few hours, months, years or possibly not at all. If it's some kind of permanent injury then there is the definite probability that memory recall will never happen. It's too early to tell."

So even a doctor couldn't give Harold any prognosis.

"But there is one thing you can be sure of. That hand of yours saved his life."

Harold's fingers were a small price to pay, if it meant John would live. "Is he able to leave?" Harold asked curiously. He was sure John would want to be out of a hospital as soon as possible.

"Physically there is no reason not to. His rib is holding out fine and he's not in danger of bleeding internally. The fracture is more of a result of repeated breaks over the years that weakened his bones. I was surprised your ribcage held out without problems after all the hours he was keeping pressure on you."

"I have never had broken ribs," Harold replied robotically.

"Your friends, the scary doctor and the detective, they said you were trapped under that building for six hours before they got you both out."

"I don't remember much from that time," Harold lied easily, he was thankfully too skilled in that. He certainly didn't want to relive his memories in a doctor's presence. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow. I will order MRI for him this afternoon. And I want to see your new blood results in the morning. I want to be sure there is no infection in your body. After that you're both free to leave, but you have to come back every day to change the dressing on your hand."

Harold looked at him, because the doctor paused his explanation.

"Mr. Swan, as much as I would like to say Mr. Rooney is in worse condition than you, your fingers are the most serious issue here. He's not in danger. His memory is a problem, but you're the one who almost lost two fingers. If there's the slightest possibility of infection, I can't risk your hand like that and you would have to stay here. Even if your tests tomorrow are ok, it will be a long time before they stop bothering you. Your nerves will take months to heal," the doctor warned him. "You will need strong painkillers to get through the day."

"You have seen my medical records, correct?" Harold heaved himself to his feet.

"Yes."

"So you should know by now I'm a professional in surviving against all odds. I can't come back here, but I can assure you Ms. Shaw will take care of me."

"Alright. As long as I'm the one who will inform her about your care."

"Certainly," Harold nodded without fuss. He limped back to John's door, knocked on it and entered.

Harold's heart stopped for a beat when he saw John standing by the bed dressed only in a hospital gown. "John!" He quickly went to his friend's side when it looked like the man could keen over. "You can't leave! You have nowhere to go!" he chastised him automatically. It was such a John Reese thing to do to leave at first convenient opportunity.

Harold stopped a hair's breadth from John's body with hands raised if John needed help. He caught himself in time before their bodies touched. He almost forgot John didn't know him and his approach would be seen as a threat.

Harold looked at John, holding his breath. There was that calculating, curious expression again. Harold was in trouble.

"I have questions," John drawled, never releasing Harold's eyes.

"Of course you do," Harold mumbled, baffled by his own breathless voice. He finally gathered enough willpower to avoid John's eyes. There was no reason for them to stay that close.

Harold moved his whole body to the side and accidentally bared his neck. He didn't take into account their proximity. When John softly exhaled, the warm breeze bathed Harold's skin. His shoulder came up protectively. Harold made several steps back just to be out of range of John's breath, but it didn't help any. His memories slipped into place.

"John-" Harold's strangled voice cut through the heavy silence. John's body was on top of his, but it wasn't like before. John didn't try to hold his weight on his forearms. No. John just laid sprawled on him and for one panicked moment Harold thought John was dead and he was trapped under John's lifeless form. Oh God. He couldn't move. His left hand was on fire. He couldn't properly breathe, because every time his lungs expanded, it was as if his ribcage tried to move a thousand pounds of rocks on his chest. He couldn't stand the idea of surviving this ordeal without John.

"John?" Harold whispered with tears in his eyes. His own panicky breathing was too loud. He couldn't hear John's. He couldn't move. His heart beat inside his ears.

Harold held his breath. He remembered John's words when he had patiently taught him how to keep his head level in dangerous situations. He needed to calm down. He needed to assess his situation. He needed to ignore his body's panic reactions and focus. Once his breath wasn't the most distracting sound around him, Harold could hear the dripping sound.

Drip.

Harold counted to six.

Drip.

The source was somewhere slightly above his left ear and every time the drop fell down, moist droplets landed on the skin behind his ear. Harold knew that metallic scent. When the ferry blew up people were gathered in one of the closest halls and triangulated by injuries there. The building reeked with the same scent. Blood.

Harold's blood pressure went up. As much as he thought he was trapped, he had spent a long time moving his neck fractionally until he could feel the warm breeze on it. John's breath. John was alive. The dripping eased as the hours went on. At some point Harold had fallen asleep.

"Harold, look at me!"

Harold blinked. He raised his confused eyes to John's. Somehow he had ended up sitting on a plastic chair. John was kneeling at his feet. That was hardly appropriate. Ignoring the situation went better when Harold closed his eyes and relaxed.

"Are you alright, Harold?"

Harold softly smiled. He heard the same question so many times in their years together. "Yes, thank you, John." It was like the last three days never happened. But when Harold opened his eyes, John still looked at him with his calculating stare. There was no trace of his previous concern. Harold's smile slipped away. He wanted to start a conversation, but didn't know what to say to this person in front of him.

"You know, I don't know anyone. I'm looking at people and I'm going only with my instincts. The nurse I'm seeing as a threat and I don't want her near me. The doctor was probably right about my diagnosis, but I don't trust him. I look at you-" John hesitated slightly.

Harold watched the transformation from John's calculating gaze to confusion.

"I know you're lying to me, and I still don't feel threatened." John explained with a creased forehead. "It doesn't make sense."

"Lying?" Harold repeated flatly. How on Earth could John know?

"Your name. When I'm saying it out loud it seems- right. Like deep down I know that. Are you alright, Harold? It fits. I can imagine saying it out loud. I know I said it at some point. When you introduced yourself - Harold Swan - there was only a blank space. Nothing. That was a lie."

Harold watched him with mouth opened in shock. "That is incredible, John," he breathed out with astonishment.

"No. That is your chance of telling me the actual truth. Who are you?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that." Harold looked at him sadly. "I can't ask you to trust me, John. I know you will never do that without a good cause, but I can't harm your life by telling you anything incriminating."

"My name is not John Rooney," he drawled angrily.

"Your name is John." Harold told him firmly. "Tomorrow, we're leaving this place and then I can answer your question better in a secure location."

"You said I was a soldier."

"Yes. You also worked for the Government as a CIA operative," Harold nodded.

"You said I was your coworker."

Harold's heart squeezed in anxiety. He didn't want to diminished their relationship to such a simple and impersonal term. "I would rather give you the title of a friend but it would be up to you. We have worked together. You were once my employee."

"Am I your bodyguard?" John guessed.

"You were certainly protective of me but it never was our arrangement."

"Are you my handler?"

Harold felt amused by the questions. John certainly didn't give up easily. "I never had a desire to work for any Government agency and I never will. Also, I'm not sure you are that kind of person who lets anyone to handle them."

"Did you know you're famous between nurses?"

Harold's forehead creased in confusion. "I wasn't aware there existed a popularity contest." He felt slightly uncomfortable because all those random questions had a hidden motive. Harold forgot how much John could manipulate the conversation just to get his results.

"According to them you repeated my name when you were waking up from surgery. You wouldn't stay still until someone assured you I was alright. My name was the first one you asked about when you could talk. Once they told you you could take a walk you were always in my room."

Harold patiently waited for the main question, because it was after all his own fault he didn't pay enough attention to John's seemingly innocent inquiries.

"The nurse, she told me we were trapped under the building and I was trying to protect you with my body, even though it's not my job as you said yourself. I'm alive because you tried to shield my head with your hand. So-"

Harold internally winced. This was it.

"Who are you to me?" John watched him with intense eyes.

The pregnant pause was interrupted by a nurse barging into the room. "Mr. Rooney, your MRI- Oh my God!" she yelp excitedly. "Are you asking him to marry you? Oh God, sorry!" she quickly rushed from the room and closed the door.

For Harold the absurdity of their situation reached another level of completely unreal.

The door opened again and Ms. Shaw stood there with bored expression. "If you're asking him to marry you that means your amnesia is fake."

Harold watched in astonishment as John's body went rigid. He slowly climbed to his feet and turned around. The air between them was surprisingly charged with danger of two predators watching warily each other.

Harold stood up beside John. "There is no marriage proposal, Ms. Shaw." He explained. "John was only too kind and helped me to sit down. His memory is really-" --gone. Harold should have been strong enough to say those simple words, but his voice broke down.

"Who are you?" John asked wearily.

"A ghost. Just like you," Ms. Shaw replied cryptically, waving a cloak of mystery for John to unravel. She did it on purpose just to let him mull something over in his head. As if John didn't have enough on his slate already.

"There's no need to be mysterious, Ms. Shaw. Tomorrow we'll be released from the hospital and we're taking John to my apartment. I would appreciate your assistance in a certain matter. If you could wait for me in the hall I would be most grateful."

Of course now would be the time Ms. Shaw decided to not answer at all and keep John in her sights. "Ms. Shaw?"

"What is he to me?" John asked calmly.

Sameen narrowed her eyes. "You want to know the truth? Do you know what I found out? Some things are ingrained in your core whether you have your memories or not. You want to know what is ingrained in yours?" She asked matter-of-factly like her question was only rhetorical. Harold didn't like that at all. She was always too blunt, too harsh.

"Sameen, please don't." Harold sighed with exasperation. Of course she would ignore him again. She casually drew her gun and pointed it at Harold's chest. John grabbed Harold's side and stepped in front of him to shield him with his body like so many times before.

"That is ingrained in your head," she smirked victoriously.

"Would you, please, stop that!" Harold snapped angrily. He met her in the middle of the room. "He's hurt! He can't remember! Your futile attempt to scare him to death is not impressing me, Ms. Shaw. I will see you in the hall!" Harold dismissed her firmly and waited for her to leave the room. Once the doors were finally closed he turned back to John.

"John?" Harold asked softly and tried to catch his eyes. John's respiration was increased. His chest was quickly rising and falling. Harold could see the visible control that took John to calm down after a threat. "I'm sorry. Sameen's unique behavior is not easily explained unless you know her. I am sure you must be confused right now, but she meant well."

Harold's attempt at diffusing the situation was laughable. How could he apologize for Sameen's irrational action like that?

They were interrupted by knocking on the door. This time it was a different nurse. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rooney, but your MRI is waiting."

"Of course." Harold stepped to the side. "I'll wait for you in the hall, John," he needed to assure John that he wouldn't occupy his room when John wasn't there. Sameen was thankfully waiting for him.

"Ms. Shaw,'' Harold sighed without any heat. He really didn't want to chastise her for her behavior.

"You look tired," Sameen pointed out.

"Thank you, Ms. Shaw. That is exactly what I wanted to hear," Harold deadpanned sarcastically. His hip screamed in pain. His back protested with every movement. His hand throbbed.

"You need to rest," she reminded him. "I can wait for him."

As much as Harold wanted to protest he didn't have enough strength to argue when she was telling the truth. "Please, don't draw your gun on him again. We have to gain his trust, Sameen. If we don't succeed, he would sneak out of our apartment and we would never see him again."

Harold limped into his own room with Sameen by his side.