1

"So I guess we resort to following them around until something happens."

Finch tried to maintain steady breathing as he limped his way down the stairs, Reese following along a few steps behind him. "I promised you a job, Mr. Reese," he said. "I didn't say it would always be fun. Something should turn up in a few—"

He didn't have a chance to finish. One badly-timed misstep had his foot sliding off of the stair and out from under him, putting far too much of his body weight on his bad leg and throwing him dangerously off-balance.

A strong pair of hands grabbed him just as he calculated that he was too far past his center of gravity to avoid catastrophe.

"Are you okay, Finch?"

Face heating with embarrassment, he got his feet back under him and pulled himself free of Reese's hands with as much dignity as he could muster. He hated that he'd had that moment of weakness in front of Reese – even though the thought of falling down half a flight of stairs had scared him more than he cared to admit.

He cleared his throat, and didn't look at his employee; he just knew there'd be a look of pity there, and he didn't want to see it. "Thank you, Mr. Reese," he begrudgingly said as he continued his trek down the stairs – taking better care to be sure of his footing as he did. "As I was saying, something should turn up in a few days…"

2

Reese tapped his earpiece. "You there, Finch? I need an exit plan."

There was a moment of silence, though he could still hear – if he listened close enough – Finch's quiet breaths on the other end of the com.

A moment later, Reese's cell phone buzzed. Always, Mr. Reese. The east stairwell is clear. Go now.

Reese gestured for the terrified woman he was protecting to follow him. "What's wrong with the com link?"

The phone buzzed again. Minor equipment malfunction. Should be resolved in a few days.

Reese suppressed a sigh as he shepherded their Number to safety, gun in one hand, phone in the other to check for messages.

The next day, Finch arrived at the Library to find Reese waiting for him; there was a box of lemon honey tea and a bag of herbal throat lozenges on the desk by his keyboard. He would have lectured Reese on minding his own business if his voice weren't still gone; he settled for a mild shake of the head as he sat down and reached for the lozenges.

3

"Let me get this straight. You called me because your car broke down?"

Finch clutched the cell phone tightly in his hand, casting a nervous glance at the cluster of shadowy figures coming closer to his car. "Not precisely, Mr. Reese. I called you because I highly doubt that these gentlemen outside are planning on offering their assistance at fixing it."

"Stay in the car. I'm on my way."

One of the figures raised an arm. Three loud shots echoed across the alley, pinging off the side of the door. Finch instinctively gasped and ducked down, thanking his lucky stars that he'd opted for the custom bulletproofing. "Yes, I think that's a very prudent decision, John – just please hurry!" he said, his words tumbling out in a panic.

It felt like hours passed; the young men outside – it was too dark for him to really make out what they looked like – took turns beating on the windows with their fists, taunting him and challenging him to get out of the car, and occasionally taking potshots at the car. Finch kept his eyes tightly shut, his cell firmly in his fist, and tried not to let his panic show.

At long last, a series of deep gunshots echoed from further down the alley. The punks stopped and stared like deer caught in headlights, then scattered after one of them was shot in the shoulder. One brave one (or stupid, depending on the point of view) drew a knife and challenged the newcomer. Finch watched in horrified fascination as the dark lethal shadow of Reese lithely dodged the knife slashes before disarming the would-be assailant and dropping him in two punches and a knee to the gut.

Hands shaking, Finch unlocked the car door and practically fell out of the driver's seat. Reese grabbed him by the elbow and kept him from hitting the pavement. "Are you hurt?"

"N-no, I'm fine," Finch stammered as Reese hurriedly ushered him to his waiting SUV. Reese deposited him in the passenger's seat before getting in himself and speeding from the scene.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Reese asked again once they were a few miles away.

Finch looked down at his still-shaking hands. "I... y-yes, I'm fine. Well, once the adrenaline wears off, anyway…" He let out a breath that he felt like he'd been holding for an eternity and leaned back against the seat. "Thank you... so much."

"You're welcome." Reese looked over at him, and added with a teasing grin, "Next time, you might want to stay out of areas that AAA refuses to service."

4

The loud screams continued to shatter the silence of the Library, echoing through the empty marble halls.

Reese grabbed Finch by the waist and wrestled him to the ground before he made it to the stairs, struggling to maintain a firm grasp on the man who was kicking and screaming and clawing to get free.

Finch took another desperate swipe at the formless monster – part werewolf maybe at times, or part kraken with its tentacles oozing dark blood as they wrapped themselves around his arms and legs. Meanwhile, the shapes of wings and talons continued to dive at him from above, and the ground melted into lava beneath him, pulling his body deeper into its cold fire. He tried to cry out for help again, but instead of words, thousands of angry hornets came flying out of his mouth, a mad swarm ready to attack...

Reese gritted his teeth at the sound of Finch's high-pitched screams of terror – heaven only knew what horrors he was hallucinating right now – and continued to lay on top of the struggling man, keeping him pinned down with his weight so he wouldn't hurt himself again; already his wrist was raw and bleeding from where he'd been clawing at whatever imaginary torture was plaguing him there.

If Reese had known ahead of time that their Number had drugged Finch with LSD, he wouldn't have been quite so hasty to let Carter collar him and take him away. Finch had started out okay enough, but somewhere along the way, his mind had taken him down a very bad trip. Reese only hoped the effects would wear off soon, because this was much worse than that time with the ecstasy.

Reese blinked back sympathetic tears as he whispered soothing words in Finch's ear, hoping that something would get through to him and free him from the nightmarish prison that his mind had trapped him in...

5

"Stay with me, Harold..."

The only response was a weak murmur – no intelligible words – and a small shifting of weight. Reese shivered violently as he wrapped his arms tighter around Finch, trying to maintain what little body heat was left between them. The older man was no longer shivering, he noticed with alarm. That wasn't a good sign.

"Don't you dare give up on me, Harold," Reese whispered, his words coming out in short puffs of frozen breath. "We're going to get out this. You are going to get out of this." Half of his words were coming out slurred. "I'm sorry... I never should have asked you to come out and help me..."

Finch shifted again, just slightly. He said something that sounded vaguely like "s'okay."

"No. No, it's not okay... supposed to be my job, not yours..."

A loud bang drew his attention; seconds later, bright sunlight flooded them. Reese looked up to see Fusco and Shaw standing at the end of the now-opened trailer.

"What is it with you and refrigerated trucks?" Fusco demanded as he and Shaw rushed toward them.

"Finch..." Reese managed to rasp out. "Get him... warm... he's hy... hype..."

"Hypothermic – we see that," Shaw filled in bluntly. "So are you, if you haven't noticed."

With some effort, Fusco and Shaw managed to get them both out of the truck and onto the ground. Reese lay motionless, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin.

Something plastic was pressed against his face, and Reese took a deep breath of warm air. As soon as his mind registered what it was, he tried to shove it off of him. "No... give it to Finch..."

"Hold still, will ya? He's got one of his own," Fusco said. "Quit trying to be a hero until you're a little less blue."

Reese turned his head to look at Finch. He was looking back at him, shivering now – at least that means his body temperature is rising – looking exhausted but alive.

On impulse, Reese reached over and took Finch's hand. Pushing the oxygen mask down for a second, he smiled and said, "Told ya we'd make it."

Finch smiled back and gave his hand a gentle reassuring squeeze.

6

His eyes snapped open. For a moment, he stared up at the dark ceiling as he tried to figure out why he was suddenly awake at two in the morning.

It was quiet – as much as it ever got anyway, with the ever present sounds of traffic that the walls never did quite block. There was no noise from any of the neighbors – for once – and while the apartment was cool, it wasn't really cold and the blankets were sufficient enough to keep him warm.

And then as the sleep cleared, he realized that it was a strong feeling of nausea that had woken him up.

Finch – no, Harold Whistler now – sat up, one hand resting on his churning stomach as he focused on taking deep breaths. He waited to see if the upright position would help matters; it didn't.

One perk about the small apartment that he now called home was that it didn't take long to get from one point to any other point. Even after almost tripping over Bear, who had been sleeping in the doorway between the bedroom and the living room, Harold managed to make it to the bathroom in plenty of time to wedge himself in front of the toilet – in an area poorly designed for even a person of normal flexibility – before his upset stomach violently disgorged its contents.

He winced in pain as his back protested. Vomiting was unpleasant enough without the extra strain it added to his old injuries. The initial attack over, he tried to straighten up to relive the pain; the end result was a painful back spasm, which in turn added to the nausea and had him retching again. Hot tears stung his eyes as he tried instead to relax in the hunched over position, to no avail.

He closed his eyes, focused on his breathing, tried to will the pain to go away. The last time he had been sick like this, he had been working a case with Reese. Harold was a very private person, especially when he wasn't feeling well, but that time he hadn't had much choice in the matter; the bout of food poisoning had come on so suddenly that he'd barely had time to make it to the wastebasket. At first, he'd been horribly embarrassed, but he'd felt so miserably sick that it quickly didn't matter. Even now, he could feel Reese's presence, one hand on his shoulder to steady him, the other hand rubbing his back, easing the worst of the spasms...

Harold jumped in surprise, looking around frantically, the pain and the nausea momentarily forgotten. That had felt so real... for a moment, he swore Reese was really right there.

But he wasn't. Harold wasn't sure if he'd dozed off and dreamed it, or if it had been a feverish hallucination – come to think of it, he did feel rather hot – but the realization left him feeling startled, and painfully lonely.

He wondered if he would ever see Reese again.