A/N: Thank you for encouraging me again to return to the original story, scully1138!
And of course...for everything else!
And Wuchel for her quiet (and unknown) support.
Disclaimer: I don't own or make any money from Person of Interest.
It was early morning - still dark outside and cold inside the Library - when Finch arrived to check on their latest number while contacting Reese via phone.
"Finch?" His partner's voice sounded weary through the speakers.
"We have a new number, Mr. Reese."
"I'm on my way," came the soft reply.
The noise he heard through the speakers just before Reese cut the line sounded like someone getting out of bed. For a moment Harold started to add that there would be no hurry at this time, but then a 'click' made it clear that John was already on his way.
Harold felt a sudden sting of helplessness. What was it anyway, what could he have said to Mr. Reese? Familiar banter - once so natural to them - seemed impossible now. Harold still didn't know how to approach a mourning Reese properly. Nothing was the same since they had returned from Rome and nothing he could say would put it right, so Harold preferred the silence.
But did he really?
He closed his eyes. To be honest, no. He wished he had the courage to confront John on this topic and not let him go until they had spoken clearly - like friends, like the way they had been before. Before John had lost his temper, his duty and his will to survive because of what had happened to Joss.
Harold was still wondering what had changed along the way that they lost this thing between them - the connection that would allow him to ask John how he could help - how they could get through this together, not alone.
When had "a problem shared is a problem halved" become out of the question?
He shook his head and returned to the computer screen. Time to work - not to dream about something that would never happen.
Half an hour passed and Mr. Reese showed up at the library - with coffee and a Sencha green tea. Although Harold didn't show it he was touched. John had thought of him, and every little gesture counted. But he still felt lost himself, with no idea what to do about it. And it only took one quick glance to see that John was tired and not in a talkative mood.
Harold quickly briefed his partner about their number - an older lady with a dog, living in a rather expensive apartment on the Upper West Side not far from Central Park - and admitted that he had no clue yet as to the nature of the danger to her. John departed promptly to begin his surveillance of the elderly woman.
In the silence of the Library, Harold's mind slipped back to John. What could he do?
After a long day spent mostly on the opposite rooftop watching over their number's apartment, Reese finally got a chance to change his stakeout. He spotted the old woman - a Mrs. Anderson - walking with her poodle towards Central Park. John was happy to move his cold feet and leave the rooftop at last. He hadn't expected the woman to stay at home the entire day, but considering the weather perhaps it was not uncommon for the elderly lady. There had been clouds and a light snowfall throughout the day, but now as dusk fell the clouds were gone and the sun sent its last rays over a glittering New York.
John took one last look then stamped his feet to stimulate his circulation before running down the stairs. It had been a long, boring day in one location but he hadn't even tried to contact Harold, preferring to keep his mind blank. There was less danger of brooding over unanswered questions that way.
He reached the ground floor and looked around. The woman and her dog stopped by a tree while the poodle took care of business, and then continued their slow walk along a path near a frozen pond.
John was tired; he was freezing, hungry and thirsty. And - he realized - he had nearly lost the will to protect this old lady. From what, anyway? She had spent the entire day indoors. His patience came to an end along with the day, as the sun faded behind the horizon and the sky grew dusky.
That's why he nearly missed the dark figure heading directly at the woman.
Channelling the anger he felt at himself and the world into his sprint, he raced toward the frozen pond. But as he heard the woman's scream - and a 'crack' and a 'splash' - he already knew that this time he would be too late.