The car pulls to a stop overlooking a large gray warehouse. A nondescript chain link fence surrounds the whole area and low lights barely illuminate the grounds within. The car on the hill is silent except for the rapid sound of typing for several long minutes until it suddenly stops.

"All right," Harold says as he looks up from his laptop. "It's ready."

John raises an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Harold gives him a look. "It is a Samaritan server station, Mr. Reese. If the internal video feed had been easy to hack then I would be worried."

"Relax, John," Root says as she opens the rear car door, John following from the driver seat. "Harold is the best."

"As complimentary as your high esteem in me is, Ms. Groves, we still must proceed with caution." Harold puts his laptop into its bag then climbs out of the car as well. "There are no doubt human Samaritan agents inside."

"Good thing I'm here," John says and cocks his gun.

Harold purses his lips. "I would prefer stealth win out."

Root snorts and begins picking her way down the grassy hill toward the dimly lit warehouse. John and Harold follow, John keeping an arm out to steady Harold as they go. Once the trio hits level ground they hurry across the open space until they reach the fence surrounding the station. Root works at the key pad quickly until it buzzes and they slip through.

"Which way?" John asks.

"We have no concrete internal blue prints but judging by the power distribution –"

"To the right," Root cuts Harold off.

Harold nods at her. They turn and walk along the edge of the building, only the exterior wall for cover until they reach a door.

"There is likely a guard," Harold says, touching John's arm once.

"Or several," Root quips.

"Get behind me." John pushes Harold' side, Root scooting in behind Harold. John twists a silencer on the end of his gun, glances back at the other two then yanks the door handle. He slides into the door way, fires two shots then looks back at Harold and Root. "Come on."

Harold looks at his watch – only a limited amount of time before his surveillance hack is noticed. "Five minutes."

The three of them walk into the building, two guards on the floor with leg wounds.

Root crosses in front of John and hurries down the hall, a laptop in one hand and gun in the other. "I will set up the disabling virus. You get your program in there Harold." She grins. "Let's transfer some ownership!"

John looks down at Harold after Root disappears around the corner. "So?"

Harold looks at his phone, taps the screen twice – references the Machine had before its shut down. "If this server housing is at all similar to the one Root accessed two years ago then we should head this way." He looks up at John. "They have at least one manual access terminal per server location."

"Lead on, Harold."

They walk swiftly down a white corridor, past a turn toward cargo access, two more turns and then out of the hallway into a huge open room filled with hundreds of tall servers in rows. The sight carries quite a weight of oppression. Harold turns his head left and sees a smaller server with external access ports and a closed laptop on a tall desk. Harold walks over and opens the laptop. It powers up instantly. Harold pulls the external hard drive from his pocket and plugs it into the computer USB port as well as directly into the server the laptop is connected to.

John stands directly behind Harold, shielding him from anyone that might attempt to surprise them. "You good, Harold?"

Harold hacks quickly from what he knows – little though it is – of Samaritan security. His program should help somewhat there. "I will be if –"

"The virus is uploaded," Root says over the coms, answering Harold's unfinished question. "The servers should be disrupted for at least five minutes to give you access."

"How long will yours take, Finch?" John asks.

Harold shakes his head as he types, code sliding by quickly as the reconfiguring program from the drive takes over the computer functions. "I have to ensure the algorithm can take over all the servers, erase the Samaritan control, so we can remotely access the server power and give the Machine its access to at least some of the functional space it needs."

"Obviously," John says deadpan.

Harold smiles a little and keeps typing. "We cannot let any trace of Samaritan's code remain on these servers if we want to change the data housing over to the Machine."

John leans over Harold's shoulder for a moment, glances at the other end of the server space then turns back around to keep his eyes on the hallway access.

"I just need to adjust the…"

"We haven't seen anyone else here, Finch," John suddenly says.

"What?" Harold replies, distracted as he adds a qualifying line of code to the program.

"There should be more than two guards here and we haven't seen anyone else."

Harold turns away from the computer to look at John behind him. "What are you saying, Mr. Reese?"

John glances at Harold and shakes his head. "It's just…"

Then a gunshot hits the server bank between John and Harold. The two of them duck instinctively, John recovering a second later to shoot back at the pair of guards coming down the hall where Harold and John entered.

"Go Finch!" John shouts as he hits one guard in the knee.

Harold crouches, keeps typing on the laptop. The program needs more time and if they cannot take control of the servers now, before Samaritan eradicates the virus from its system, then the whole mission is lost.

John shoves the now broken server, fortunately not the one Harold is connected to, in front of them for some modicum of cover.

"Hurry, Harold!" John shouts, shooting three more times.

"I am doing the best I can, Mr. Reese. It is not a system which will cave easily under such hacking, that is why it was necessary to be on site."

John grunts as a bullet grazes him, knocking into Harold once then standing straight again, fires two more shots then reloads. "Necessary to be in this much danger?"

Harold shakes his head and adjusts the program again, watches the code. "We need this, John."

"Harold, if we can't, we can find another –" Another bullet abruptly smashes into their server cover so sparks fly.

"We must have the Machine back, John, it is our best hope."

The sound of feet and unfamiliar shouts come from down the hall, more guards approaching to attack.

"Root!" John shouts into the com. "We may need your help."

"On my way," they hear in their ears. "It looks like the internal video feed is –"

"I know, I know!" Harold gasps. "The program is hanging, something is –"

Then something happens, something sharp and sudden and not truly painful until Harold blinks twice, until he actually sees the guard holding the gun from the opposite side of the guards John engages, from around the bend in the server warehouse – from their blind spot.

"John…" Harold says, almost imperceptible.

Then he falls.

Harold feels the wool of John's coat as John turns, he tries to grab on to John's arm as he falls but he hits the ground, John's voice ringing in his ears with his name. Then his chest is on fire, stabbing, splintering. He tastes blood in the back of his throat.

"Joh…. John…"

"Finch!" John shouts, shoots in both directions, half crouched over Harold now to protect him.

Harold gasps and tries to breathe normally, tries to breathe past the pain. "I'm…" He gasps. "I can't…"

"Root, where are you?" John shouts, shoots three more times then spins around over Harold. "Harold, look at me, Harold." He smacks Harold lightly in the face so Harold blinks and John's face becomes clear. "Come on."

"John…" Harold says and tries to reach up for him but Harold's arms are so heavy.

"It's going to be okay, Harold, we will get you out of here." John puts both hands over Harold's chest and presses down making Harold gasp sharply at the pain. "Root, Harold is hit."

"What?" Harold hears her voice – distant and like she is across an ocean.

"We have to get out, now. He won't…" John cuts himself off and presses down again.

Harold breathes in, blinks over and over so he does not pass out but the pain is so intense. It is like the ferry, like the explosion, like the worst day of his life all over again. He breathes in and out, tries to focus on John's panicked face. He knows he needs to stay conscious but he can barely see straight.

He moans into a gasp. "John… I don't think I…"

"Stay with me, Harold," John says gripping the side of Harold's face with one hand while keeping the other in place. "Remember how many times I've been shot?"

"Yes," Harold says weakly.

John smiles – an attempt at reassurance which John often lacks. "This is only your second. You can make it."

Harold cannot always tell when John is lying but this time the fear in John's voice is obvious. "The program…" Harold gasps again, coughs and tastes blood in his mouth, on his tongue. "We have to finish the program, we have to..."

"It's too late, Finch."

"Harold!" Root's voice suddenly comes from somewhere behind John where Harold cannot see. "Oh god."

"Help me!" John says.

Suddenly four hands are pulling Harold up from the ground. Harold groans and wants to scream, feels like his legs are barely there, like they are back in a wheel chair, useless and attached to a broken back.

"Here, here!" Root says.

Harold feels them hauling his arms over their shoulders and then it is like they are running. It feels too fast, like he can barely keep up, like Harold will fall and die here with the enemy.

"What happened?" Root asks. "What happened!"

"Talk later, now we –"

"Samaritan defeated the virus quicker than I thought it would but did the program get through to…"

"No."

Root's hand clenches so hard Harold can feel it. "Then this was a failure…" She breathes out in a ragged way. "We have to –"

"We can't stay; we just need to get out now!"

"I don't think…" Harold starts but his brain cannot keep up, cannot remember what he cannot do.

"We are almost there, Finch," John says, "hold on."

"It's okay, Harry," Root says close to his ear.

Harold thinks it is not okay.

"It's cold," He says and starts to shake. "I'm cold.

Then a door clangs and the feeling of outdoors hits Harold. He hears gravel and wind and more silence than his New York City living is used to. His feet move but do not move at the same time. He knows they are climbing the hill, the angle less than ninety degrees but more than flat. Harold wonders if the stars can be seen here further away from the city.

"Harold!" John snaps and Harold opens his eyes.

The pain hits Harold again as they climb into the car – sharp and hot and cold and like razor blades, like shrapnel, like a ferry bomb in his back. Harold groans and flings out at arm to grab at anything, fists his hands and swallows blood as they lay him flat on the back seat. The car door slams shut and John is right next to him, tearing buttons off of his vest and shirt beneath.

"Go, Root, go!" John shouts as the car starts and squeals on the pavement.

"It will still take us at least fifteen –"

"Break the speed limit, I do not care, Root, I am not going to let this happen!"

"John…"

John holds gauze which must be from the meager med kit in their car against the wound in Harold's chest – his finger tips hot against Harold's skin – keeps pressure even though Harold can feel blood on his own hands, still in his throat and on his teeth. It is as if the blood is slowly pushing up through his mouth instead of the hole in his chest. Everything is hurting less then more, back and forth in odd waves Harold cannot predict or quantify and somewhere in the back of his mind Harold thinks that is probably not a good sign.

"This warehouse is isolated, John, and we don't exactly have a plane!" She snaps then she clears her throat. "We… we might not…"

"Just drive!"

"John…"

John finally looks down at Harold, both hands still on Harold's chest. "Harold?"

"I… I'm cold."

"It's the shock, Finch. Just stay awake. We are getting you help."

Harold shakes his head. "I don't think…"

"Well this time you don't get to think, Harold," John cuts him off. "Let us help you."

"I don't think you can," Harold says quietly. Harold tries to breathe but it is hurting more and more each time. He fists his hand around John's arm, breathes shallow and his head hurts. "It's too…"

"Don't say that, Harold."

Harold sees the gray in John's hair from where he lies half across John's lap, just at John's temples, though there is more now than there used to be when Harold met him. Harold should have told him it was fetching, don't they call that 'salt and pepper.' Not to mention it has always been kind of funny how much gray John has compared to Harold when Harold has so many years on him. Harold smiles and tires to reach up and touch John's hair, that short military cut that always looks perfect on him.

"Finch, look at me."

"I am."

"No, Finch, look at me."

Harold blinks and gasps and the sounds is watery and weak. John is gripping his hand, Harold not even holding it up himself any longer.

"You have to… the Machine, you have to…"

"Don't worry about that now, Finch, we just need to get you –"

"No," Harold tries to insist, tries to find the energy to convey the importance. "She's my… she's my creatio… my daughter, you have to…"

Root makes a sound like a sob from far away across New York City on the other side of memory.

John shakes his head. "Right now I'm worried about you, Finch, worried about you staying conscious. Please, don't give up, Harold."

Harold laughs, low and quiet and weak and he sees John staring right back at him, that expression Harold cannot forget, that face that wants to always believe in him. "Is… is this how… how you feel?"

Harold doesn't say, 'when you're dying.'

"Is this how you always feel?" John asks back quietly.

And John does not have to say, 'when you're not.'

Harold realizes as he breathes into the back of his throat that he cannot feel the pain any longer. He smiles with his eyes – back four years to a man who was as lost as he was and just as lonely, to a new hope after his life blew up and his heart cried alone, to lives saved back and forth until they were more in each other's debt and more important than anything else – he smiles up at John.

"Thank you."

"Finc… Harold, no, Harold, stay with me. Harold! Open your eyes… Open your eyes! Harold, please, Harold!"

And then Harold hears nothing at all.